


The Wanderer

by Tangledfire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Versailles (TV 2015), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Curses, Feels, Fluff, Hurts So Good, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Immortality, M/M, Mentions of Rape, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Reincarnation, Theology, Travel, immortal character, this thing is insane, you don't need to know the other fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangledfire/pseuds/Tangledfire
Summary: Floki is cursed after the death of Athelstan.He does not age, he cannot die. Through the centuries he wanders the world, watching as everything grows old and dies. But soon he finds he is no the only soul forced to keep wandering the earth. A familiar man keeps coming back, different names, different lives, the same face.**You really don't need to know Les Mis or Versailles to read this.
Relationships: Athelstan/Floki (Vikings)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 118





	1. Cursed

**Author's Note:**

> Oh lord! What have I done to myself, this all started with me being in love with Floki/Athelstan because hate ships are the best. But there is so few for this pairing so I wanted to write my own and George Blagden is in Les Mis and Versailles and I thought wouldn't it be wild to have Floki show up in those? And... and then this happened... 
> 
> Prepare yourself for an angst ridden tour through inaccurate history!
> 
> Also I started writing this before I saw all of the last episode of season 4.5 so the beginning assumes that the sons on Ragnar just g back to Kattagat after revenging him.
> 
> No beta so let me know if you find any mistakes.

It takes a while for him to notice the change. Rather the lack of change. Everyone gets older, it’s a fact of life but after the death of Helga, Floki truly begins to see. Those around him grow older, scars and gray hairs morphing the faces of those he knew. By all rights he should be getting old, grey and tired. Ragnar was only a few years older and he looked like a sad old man when he left Kattegat for the last time. Looking at his face in the waters of the fjord by his lonely home Floki runs his hands across his face. His hair grows, he bleeds, but he can’t help but think the lines on his face look the same as they did before The Night. 

He calls it The Night only to himself. He can still feel the ax in his hand as he snuck into town, rage the only thing on his mind. 

Athelstan had died so peacefully, not a scream, or a grunt, just the whisper of his name. 

“Floki,”

Like the priest already knew. 

Crouching on the rough sand of the little beach next to the dock, Floki looks up at the mountains that climb out of the deep waters. Winter is coming, he can smell it in the air. He touches a hand on a healing wound above his heart. He had gained it in battle a few days ago. There was a big fight against king Harald Finehair. Floki used to like king Harald but after returning to Kattagat and leaning of the attack he orchestrated against Lagertha,he felt any respect for the man wash away. He loves Kattegat, and the sons of Ragnar, and Lagertha, they are the only people he trusts.

In the heat of the battle a great spear had flown through the air and pierced right into Floki’s heart. It hurt. A deadly blow. Yet he did not fall. He had stood there stunned for a moment, then pulled the spear from his chest, thrown it to the ground and jumped onto the man who had thrown it. The man had just stared at him in absolute horror as he struck his face over and over with the sharp edge of his axe.

After the fighting, he cleaned the wound out with water and packed it with herbs to keep an infection away. A blessing from the gods, he had thought at the time. Ivar had agreed. Told him it “must be a reward for always staying so loyal to the gods”. 

The wound is healing fast. Too fast. It’s nearly gone now, and he can tell already that it will leave no scar.

He should have known something was wrong when he stood among his burning ladders at the walls of Paris. The flames had been so hot, dancing around him, destroying all he had done. He had thought the flames would destroy him too. Someone pulled him out before the hungry fire could consume him. It took him awhile to realize that while the pain had been indescribable, the burns looked only minor, healed fast and left no trace that they had ever marred his pale freckled skin. At the time, he had been more worried about Helga and Ragnar.

Standing and rolling his head in a stiff motion Floki resolves himself to an experiment. He will injure himself, in any and all the ways he can think of and watch the results.

That night, sitting on the dirt floor of his home, he takes one of his many whittling knives, a fine blade gifted to him by Ragnar long long ago. In the quiet empty of his home he slices it across his hand. It stings, and he watches with fascination as blood pools in his hand, reflecting the light of the fire. He tilts his hand and lets his blood flow onto the ground. Within a few moments the flow stops completely. He wipes what's left off and examines the rough skin of his palm. There is a cut across his hand, clotted with blood. He cleans it with water. Then goes to sleep. He doesn’t sleep in the bed he and Helga shared anymore. He sleeps on the floor with a pile of furs. 

When the pale light of morning wakes him, he springs up and holds his hand to the light. The cut is scabbed over, looking almost healed. He stares at it for a moment then rushes outside and takes a hammer to the same hand. He feels the bones shatter, and he screams in pain. 

The next day his hand still hurts, he bandages it.  
Bjorn comes to visit. He brings supplies and asks about progress on the new ships his mother paid for. He shows Bjorn the start of the first of the three, excitedly explaining the new improvements he has made. He;s running his hands across one of the finely shaped bands of wood what will become part of the hull, when Bjorn asks about his hand. 

Floki freezes then slowly looks down at his hand and flexes it a bit. It still hurts but not the pain of a broken bone. 

“I broke my hand,” 

“When?” Bjorn’s serious face pinches in concern.

“Yesterday,” Floki lifts his hand and unwraps it. The cut is gone. The center where he had smashed the hammer is black and purple. He wiggles his fingers and hisses a bit at the sharp pain of moving nearly healed bones too soon. “Or at least I thought I did…”

Bjorn looks his hand over. “Floki this must be at least a week old. Are you sure it was yesterday,”

“I-I don’t know.” His hazel eyes flicker back and forth from his hand to the icy blue of Bjorn’s eyes. 

They stand in silence for a moment Bjorn thinking and Floki unnaturally still. 

“Mother has asked about you coming to live in Kattegat for the winter. There are a lot of improvements to the fortifications she wants made and wondered if you could design them,” He doesn’t say what they both know. They are worried about him, out here, alone, and growing older. 

“Maybe…” Floki drops his hand and avoids Bjorn’s eyes. Sometimes looking at others is just too much for him, too intense. “I don’t like how loud it is now, too many people,” He makes a face. 

“Think about it,” Bjorn claps a hand on his shoulder. 

Floki is struck, as he often is, by how much Bjorn has grown. When they had first met the boy’s head had barely reached past his elbow. Now he can look Floki right in the eyes without looking up at all.

Time. Time. So much time. He wishes he could go back, before everything.

Bjorn leaves him with a request to come to town before the first snow falls or he will risk being stuck out in his little hut.

That night he cuts up his arm so bad he thinks he might bleed out. As the moon circles over head he sits on the floor watching the cuts on his arm as they heal and begin to knit back together. 

Three days later he is in Kattegat. His hand fully healed, the cuts have left not even a scar. 

Lagertha is happy to see him and offers him a nice little hut to stay in, away from the center of the town. 

Ivar banters with him, Bjorn asks about joining next summers raid. Everything is so normal. There's still a lot of tension because Ivar wants to kill Lagertha, and all of the brothers are still upset about the death of Siggart. All this hate will boil over soon but for now, it’s peaceful.

That night is cold, the cold that means the first snow is coming. It seeps into every crack and sends shivers up the spine. When most of the town is asleep Floki steps into a place he had only been once before. The bones that hang from the ceiling of the seers home clack as he passes through them. 

The old man is awake. Floki stands as far away as he can. His back to the wall, fingers skittering across the woven sticks. 

“You’re back…” the seers voice doesn’t even seem to come from the decrepit man, it comes from the walls, from Floki’s own mind.

“I have a question,”

The seer chuckles. “They always do,”

Floki’s eyes race around the small hut. He has never liked the seer. He knows too much, he’s too much like Floki. Plagued by visions and isolated even within the walls of Kattegat. 

“Will I ever die?”

The seer breaths out one long rattling sigh. “In all these years I have had many people ask when they will die, how they will die, if they will die. Never will they.”

Floki’s spidery fingers push him from the wall and he slowly moves through the hanging bones and smoke, lithe like an animal stalking its prey. He stops in front of the old man. Towering over him.

“Will I ever die?”

The seer’s scared eyes turn to him. Floki knows the seer cannot see his face, but he can’t help but feel that he is being looked into. The very fiber of what makes Floki, Floki being pried apart and examined. 

“Why are you asking me? You already know,” 

With an an animalistic growl he swings around and leaves, letting the old door slam shut behind him. 

With cat like movements he makes his way through the shadows cast by barns, huts, and food storage. His silent steps lead him to the docks. One of his boats is anchored by the main raised dock. It’s an old one, it used to belong to Ragnar, now it belongs to Bjorn. He hops onto the boat. The old wood comforts him. He runs his fingers across the carving on the front bow. While looking out into the Fjord. 

It’s beautiful. His home. No matter how far he has traveled he doesn’t think he could ever tire of the view. The sight of the mountains that reach between the sky and the water are something magical, and old magic that makes people stop and stare in awe.

Small waves lap against the boat and rock it like a baby in a mother's arms. 

His fingers come across a notch in the wood that isn't part of the pattern. He runs the pad of a finger over it. Perhaps it’s from a sword or a stray arrow. Then he realizes. He pulls his hand away and peers at it. The shape is immediately recognizable. It’s the christian cross, Purposefully carved into the old wood. At first he scowls then he lets out a high laugh. 

“Even now you are here, priest,” He leans heavily on the wood of the bow draping his lanky form across it. He closes his eyes and feels the symbol, his fingers tracing every facet of it. “You haunt me,”

From across the water he hears Athelstan’s voice, his name, softly, gently, forgiving his misdeed even before it had happened.

Floki lets his eyes flick open and follow the path of the moonlight on the water. His fingers stilling on the old carving made by a man who is long dead. With a push he stands up straight and walks to the side of the boat. The tide is high, no one is watching, if it works, no one will really miss him. He never learned how to swim. 

Floki wakes up on the beach of Kattegat, the sun is blocked by the faces of Bjorn and Ivar. 

He feels the immediate need to vomit and cough at the same time, he rolls to the side and violently begins heaving and coughing up water. Someone pats his back. 

It takes a long time for him to get all the water out of his body. When the coughs have subsided, he scoots away from the disgusting vomit and sits shaking, his face tilted toward the sky. Lagertha drapes a blanket around his shoulders and asks if he is alright. He shakes his head. No. 

Everyone's voices sound like they are muffled. His mind feels empty except for a black pit of dread that slowly consumes him.  
Bjorn and Lathertha drag him back to the hall, Ivar pulling himself along behind. Floki is laid down on the large bed that Lathertha usually sleeps in now that she is queen. The two help rid him of this soggy clothing and give him some of Bjorn’s things. All of the clothes are a bit too big, Bjorn being a lot more muscular. Floki feels swamped in the baggy clothes. 

They pile blankets on top of him, he feels his shivering begin to subside. Lagertha sits next to him, she runs a hand across one of his cheeks. Without meaning to his eyes meet hers. The concern in their blue depths makes him feel immediately guilty and he looks quickly away. 

He opens his mouth to say something but her voice cuts him off. “No you sleep,” It’s the same voice she used to use with Bjorn and Gyda when they would misbehave.

He drifts to sleep quickly listening to the sound of the fire in the main room and the gentle humming from Lagertha as she keeps running a few fingers lightly across his cheek. 

When he wakes it is night, Ivar has taken Lagertha’s place. 

The young man looks angry. But, he always looks angry.

“You’re finally awake.” 

Floki sits up, slowly, his joints feel like they are made of stone. Ivar hands him a mug. He drinks it down quickly. To his disappointment it just water and not ale. 

“What were you doing in the water? You can’t swim.” 

Floki wipes some spilled water from his short beard. “A test,”

Ivar’s unsettling eyes bore into the side of Floki’s face. He knows he has to look at him eventually. He turns toward Ivar. Despite his issues and jarring personality Ivar has always been Floki’s favorite of all of Ragnar’s sons. Maybe it is because he helped raise him. When Aslaug couldn’t be bothered with any of her sons Floki would tell Ivar tales of the Gods, teach him how to whittle, and hold an ax. He never thought of the boy as incapable despite his useless legs. He saw himself in Ivar’s differences and his isolation from others because of that difference. 

“I wanted to see if I could die,” Floki keeps his eyes steady. 

Ivar’s sharp brows furrow. “Why? Why would you try to die? Are you an idiot?”

“Bring me something sharp,”

Ivar considers for a moment. Then pulls a knife out from a little sheath is in leather arm guard. He holds it out, handle first to Floki. When the boat builders long fingers brush against the wooden handle Ivar pulls it back. “You aren't going to slit your throat with it,”

“No, but it wouldn’t make a difference if I did,” With a quick move Floki snatches the knife. 

He holds up his other hand and cuts a small line across the pad of his pointer finger. 

A drop of blood begins to form and it slowly drips down his finger.

“Okay, now you are bleeding, is this supposed to prove something?” Ivar has always been impatient.

“Wait,” After the first drop of blood, the flow stops immediately. “See,”

“See what?” Ivar squints at the finger. 

“Just... just wait,”

It takes just a small while longer for the cut to scab over. When Floki shows Ivar the progress, the young man just looks confused. 

“So you heal from cuts quickly?”

“No! No!” Floki starts lifting his tunic shirt up. “I realized it at the battle about a month ago. Remember the spear? It hit me in the heart. I should have died.” He points to the spot the wound should have been still healing. There is nothing but smooth skin.

“Wha-” Ivar cuts himself off and reaches toward Floki. He stops himself from touching and just sits there with one arm stretched out looking baffled. 

“I’ve checked and I don’t have any new scars. My face looks exactly the same. There was a fire I was trapped in back at Paris, when you were just a child. I should have died in that fire,” Floki drops his shirt and runs a shaking hand across his tattooed head. “I should be dead three times over and yet here I am, young, healthy,”  
Ivar drops his hand. “Some kind of magic?”

“Some kind of curse,”

“How would you get a curse, you are the most loyal follower of the Gods. You believe more than any of us. You’ve killed the very christian who was corrupting my father,” 

But!” Floki springs up. “That’s just it! I killed Athelstan and he or his Christ god must have cursed me for the deed. I am no older than I was on that night. I cannot die.” Floki feels his eyes lose focus, and begin to wet with tears. “I will never enter Valhalla. Never see Toristin, Helga or any of my other long dead friends again. I’ll never fight with Ragnar in the courtyard of the gods. I’ll wander Midgard until Ragnarok and perhaps even after.”

Floki stays by Ivar’s side. The young man becomes a fiercer Viking than any who have come before him. Floki builds him boats and weapons always improving. Though Floki refuses to help Ivar take down Lagertha. It causes a big fight between the two. After Lagertha’s death they get over it. Ivar needs Floki, he trusts the boat builder as he trusts no one else. 

Through the years others around Foki begin to notice his unaging form. They treat him as they did the seer in Kattegat. A holy man, they come to him for advice, for visions, for understanding. 

He is reckless knowing nothing can kill him. He throws himself into the worst parts of battle gaining numerous injuries. They all heal and fade. During one memorable battle against the English king Alfred, Floki was distracted by how much the boy now looked like his father as he rode a white horse though the battle. An ax came down on Floki's head. He was out for 3 days and awakened to and angry Ivar. He was berated for being too distracted. People actually thought the ax might have brought the boat builder down.

He makes countless sacrifices to the gods. For the success of battle, for good crops, even for himself asking the gods to answer him and take this curse away. He never gets a reply, only visions of things to come that cloud his eyes. 

Are the gods real? He's so confused. Is any god real? He sees so many people praying, begging, screaming to unanswering deities. the curse is the only thing that proves to Floki that there is something out there. So he chooses to keep his faith in the old Norse gods. Perhaps they have simply lost interest in Midgard. Perhaps the Christ God is too powerful for them.

Ivar always holds onto the old gods. He holds great bolts where they sacrifice nine of everything to Oden. Hundreds of Christian's fall to the swing of Ivar's ax and the angry young man slowly becomes an angry old man.

When Ivar passes it begins not with a battle but with a swift and terrible disease. He’s an old man by then, his beard streaked with grey, his wealth immense. He demands that Floki fight him one last time so he can die in battle not to some disease. It’s not a fair fight. His last words to Floki are that he will "Say hello to all his friends for him in Valhalla".

Floki builds one last boat for Ivar, as he has done for all of Ragnar's sons.

After Ivar’s death Floki gathers up a large group of loyal men and women. He creates a large fleet of ships, more wonderful than any he has ever built before. He wants to know what is even farther west. For surely there must be something. If they fall off the edge of Midgard, it won't matter much to him. 

They come across a large island with mountains that spit fire. At first Floki is convinced it's Asgard. 

They name the land Garðarshólmi after one of the men who helped lead on the journey.

Floki lives there for a long while. Nearly three decades. But he soon grows tired of leading the new settlers, he’s tired of being looked up to as holy. He leaves, alone. 

He lands in England. All the people he used to know there are long dead. Some of them killed by his own hands. 

He visits Wessics, stands under the large tree where Helga's body lays. The town around the villa has grown a bit. But the large tree remains. He talks to her for a while. He hopes she can hear him wherever she may be. He hopes her spirit isn't stuck wandering Hel. She was too bright and good for such a lonely place. He should have been a better husband. He should have been better at a lot of things.

Without really trying to he finds himself at the monastery of Lindisfarne. It’s still in use, monks going about their prayers and chores.

In his time with Ivar he had helped kill hundreds of Christians. He was so angry, angry at the Christ god, angry at his gods, at Athelstan, at himself. The years in Garðarshólmi mellowed him. What was the point of hating the Christians when hating them was what got him in the first place. Not that he doesn't still feel the call to violence, he likes fighting, he likes killing, the rush of adrenaline and the smell of blood. But he won't seek out fights just for the sake of it.

He uses what little English he remembers to communicate with the monks that he would like to stay there and learn their language. 

At first they all seem very nervous of him but take him in. They put him to work helping repair the monastery, lots of heavy lifting that many of the monks cannot do. In return they feed him, give him a place to stay and teach him English. The language frustrates him, it’s hard to learn, lots of the rules don’t make any sense to him. He hates the reading lessons most of all. One very old monk, named father Joshua decides it’s his job to teach Floki to read and write. The letters jumble in his head and words blur in his eyes. Father Joshua is kind, and patent, he even asks to learn about the ways of the Norsemen, their beliefs and traditions and language. He never tries to force the Christ god onto Floki. 

One day Floki is fixing the cross beams in the room where he and Ragnar first met Athelstan. He doesn’t like being in it. Sometimes when he looks around the room he can still see the frightened round eyes of the little priest. He longs to go back and undo the past. Sometimes he wishes he never killed Athelstan that night, sometimes he wishes he killed Athelstan that first day, most of the time he wishes they never sailed to England. 

He is staring into the corner where he had found Ragnar and Athelstan speaking, hammer and nails forgotten in his hands when the Father Joshua enters the room. 

“Floki! I need your help with the chicken coup, a fox got in and we need to fix-”

Floki looks at him with a blank face. “Do you have anything written by a monk named Athelstan?”

Father Joshua’s kindly face frowns thinking. “Maybe,”

“It would have been from before the first Norsemen raid.”

“Oh yes yes!” Father Joshua motions for Floki to follow him. “If we have anything it will be with the other books saved from that raid.” 

He leads Floki though a few halls and door ways, Floki often having to duck down to fit his tall frame through. They end up in the room called the library. The whole place is filled with copies of scrolls and books. Father Joshua comes to a shelf filled with mostly loose pages and a few books, some of which have been burned around the edges. The old monk starts pulling down pages placing them on a table. He explains while he pulls down the scrolls. “Monks don’t sign their work, usually. Most of what we have from those days are copies of other books. It’s still worth a look though,”

Most are filled with Latin which Floki still has trouble reading. There are paintings of angels, and saints. Floki runs his fingers across one with a the Christ child and his mother. 

Father Joshua starts shifting through the old papers, humming. “My look at the work on this one,” Smiling he holds out a page with a few words of a passage written neatly down it. The sides are decorated with gold and blue angels. 

Floki stares at the page in wonder. He knows the moment his fingers touch the old page. It’s been nearly ninety years since The Night, but something still remains. 

“Why are you so interested in this Athelstan?” Father Joshua looks from the page to his Norse friend.

Floki doesn’t look up he just traces the lines of the angels with his fingers. The blue of their robes is the same as Athelstan’s eyes. “Athelstan was captured by Ragnar Lothbrook and taken back to Kattegat. He became friends with the people there, he fought with them, believed in their gods, wore their sacred armband." He glances at the gold band he still wears. "Then… then he stopped believing, he wanted to be a christian again,” Floki lifts his hazel eyes to the fading grey of the old monks. “He was killed. Killed by a man named Hrafna-Flóki Vilgerðarson,” 

Father Joshua’s face wrinkles in confusion. “That was nearly one hundred years ago. Was he an ancestor to you?”

“Something like that,” Floki looks back at the paper. “May I keep this?”

“I don’t see why not,” Father Joshua smiles kindly and pats Floki’s arm. “I can see that you like it. Meet me out by the chickens when you are ready,” the old man slowly pads out of the room.

Floki stares at the page for a while longer. He wonders what Athelstan was like before the raid. Before he ever met Ragnar Lothbrook. Probably even more kind and naive then when he first arrived in Kattegat. What had he imagined his life would be?

He folds the page up and places it in a small pouch around his waist. He keeps it on him till the paper turns to dust and crumbles away.


	2. The First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow an update! This story wont always update on Sundays but I have quite a bit done and I want to leave people off with some actual content not just the very beginning.  
> Hopefully everyone likes it! We are now getting into the actual ship happening!  
> Also I don't speak Russian so if you do let me know if there is a mistake.

Floki thought the winters in Kattegat where hard. The winters in the far North East are even worse. He had come to the lands a few years ago and spent his time wandering the vast isolated stretches of wilderness far to the east. Now with winter returning he is making his way back to the civilizations along the west coast, close his original home in Kattegat. Back when Haraldson had been earl they had raided along the coast nearly every year, coming back with little.

Light snow is falling when he comes upon a small farming settlement. It’s not more than a few huts and fields. He hopes that perhaps he can spend a few days earning his keep by helping around. The last winter he had spent nearly frozen solid in the far far north. It took him months for all his fingers and toes to return to a normal color rather than the black of frostbite. He is determined to not spend a second winter that way.

Bundling his heavy pelt cloak around him he makes his way down into the little valley, looking at each of the small homes searching for a fire or a light to indicate someone is home. The largest home does indeed have smoke coming out the old stone chimney. He shivers thinking of how warm it will be inside.

The snow is already as tall as the toe part of his shoes when he reaches the door and knocks on it heavily.

While he waits for the door to be opened he tries to recall as much of the local language as he can to ask for a place to stay.

He thinks he has the right words when the heavy pine door creaks open.

All thought of what to ask falls from Floki’s mind as he looks down at the short man peering out of the home.

His hair is a dark curling halo around his head. His face sports a neat trimmed beard and his curious blue eyes look up and down Floki.

He knows that face, he knows those eyes.

Athelstan.

It’s been nearly three hundred and fifty years but he always remembers that face.

Floki opens his mouth to scream, perhaps, he’s not sure, for no sound comes out of his mouth.

The young man tilts his head and in the voice that has so long haunted Floki he asks “Я могу вам помочь?”

It sounds like absolute gibberish to Floki.

When he doesn’t answer the man gives Floki a concerned look then says something else. “Бедняга. ты должен быть потерян или слишком холодно,” He reaches out and gently, like one does with a frightened animal, he takes Floki’s hand and pulls him into the home.

Floki follows limply.

The young man sits him down on a stool near the fire and takes his heavy pelt cloak, shaking the melting snow from it then hanging it on a hook to dry. Floki watches him. His every movement. He can’t decide if this is a vision, or a ghost, or the man himself.

The young man gestures to a pot over the fire. “еда скоро будет готова.”

Floki knows one of the words as food and his eyes flick briefly away from the man and to the soup bubbling away, then back.

The man offers him a small smile, before heading to a small cupboard to get two wooden bowls.

When his back is turned, his blue eyes hidden, Floki finds his voice. “Athelstan?”

The young man turns back to him looking confused. “Что?”

He repeats himself. “Athelstan?”

He just gets another confused look in return.

It must not be him. It cannot be him. He is sure if it was Athelstan, even a ghost of him he would not have brought Floki into a warm home and offered him soup. He looks away from the young man and into the fire. Slowly he reaches his hands out to the flames, he warms his hands while moving them in well practiced movements. Ever since he was born he’s felt the need to dance his hands in the air, patterns of runes and waves, it helps him focus. Get out nervous energy.

He glances back at the young man, he is coming back over two bowls in one hand and another stool in the other. He gets a small smile when their eyes meet. The young man sets the stool down next to the one Floki is sitting upon and goes to the pot of soup. Using a ladle he scoops up two bowl fulls. With slow kind movements he hands one to Floki then sits on the other stool with his own bowl. He blows on the steaming liquid gently, then turns to Floki.

“вы можете говорить?”

The Norseman only understands one word. You.

He looks at his long spidery fingers holding the roughly carved bowl, he is shaking. He lets out a long breath then looks at the man next to him, catching his dark curious eyes.

“Я… Я остаюсь?” He starts and stops then starts again trying to pronounce the foreign words. “Я работаю?” Can he stay if he works?

The young man’s dark eyebrows scrunch for a moment. Then clear in understanding. He nods enthusiastically. “Ой! Да, вы можете работать на ферме и остаться на некоторое время.”

The string of sounds is too hard for Floki to decipher and he just stares in confusion.

“Да,” He says it slowly and Floki recognizes it as their word for yes.

Floki lets out a long breath, feeling a bit of tension melt away. He turns away and takes a small sip of the soup. It’s good, full of vegetables and a bit of rabbit. It’s been a few days since he had last eaten. He has found over the years that he still needs to eat or his body will become weaker, but he doesn’t need nearly as much as before. He likes eating when the food is good, but on his long travels hunting can be a tedious task so if he has to go without for a few days he does. The same for sleeping. Though he tries to sleep most nights as a few days without will make him ancy and twitchy.

The warmth of the soup spreads through his old bones and he sighs happily.

The young man’s voice pipes up again, pulling at his attention.

“Как Вас зовут?” He is asking Floki his name.

He thinks for a moment. He doesn’t want to hear his name in that all too familiar voice. He already hears it in his dreams.

“Норвежец,” Norvezhets, their word for the Northmen like Floki.

The young man repeats it back, with a small frown, probably realizing it is not really his name. “Станислав,” He points at himself.  
Floki tries to repeat the name back “San-tan-is-slav?”

The young man, Stanislav, laughs at his butchered pronunciation. “Stan-is-lav,” He gently corrects.

“Stanislav,” Floki knows he’s definitely still not quite right on the pronunciation, but it is probably as good as it is going to get.

He sleeps on the floor of the large house next to the fire, curled up on his well used bed roll. Stanislav sleeps in a separate room, behind a heavy door.

The next day he starts work on the farm. They are mostly all prepared for the winter but there is always more to be done: things to fix, animals to feed, food to be made.

Floki is introduced to the other people in the small community. There are nine of them excluding Stanislav. Three men, three women and three children, the oldest in his early teens, the other two twin girls no older than five or six. He has trouble understanding most of what anyone says to him, but gets working right away on anything he can. He feeds the pigs, and helps the oldest man, Misha, repair the wall of the barn that has begun to fall apart. He thinks that perhaps he even made a few improvements.

From what he can gather of people's interactions, Stanislav is the owner of the land and farm, everyone else works for him. That’s why he has the largest home despite living alone. Stanislav puts in his equal share of work. Floki watches him gather water from the well to give the animals, and sees him chopping firewood with strong swings of a rusting ax. Floki cannot help the jump in his chest whenever the young man comes into view. His eyes track Stanislav’s movement without even thinking about it.

A few times he catches Floki staring. He just waves and smiles. Floki can’t help but feel his cheeks flush as he quickly looks away.

What Floki quickly becomes the most helpful with is reaching high places. The tallest person on the farm’s head only reaches up to his shoulder. He feels a bit like a giant among them, all day he is lead to high shelves for dusting or grabbing an old pot or small repairs. He finds the whole thing a little amusing as the others point to the objects far above there reach and he grabs it with no problem.

When the sun sets Floki returns to the large house. Stanislav, the twins and one of the women is inside, she is stirring another pot of soup over the fire. The twins are playing with a poorly made wooden horse at the table. Stanislav is whittling at something across from the two girls.

When he enters the twins, who seem to be a bit afraid of him still and huddle together. The woman just smiles at him and Stanislav looks up and says “Zdravstvuyte, Norvezhets,”

It’s their word for hello, and Floki repeats it back.

“Zdravstvuyte, Stanislav,” He sits down at the table next to the twins. They both stare up at him with wide brown eyes. He pulls a face and sticks his tongue out at them. One of them let’s out a squeak and hides the other giggles. They remind him of Angrboda.

He suddenly feels her loss as a sharp sting in his heart. She would be dead now anyways, but if it hadn’t been for his choices she might have lived to be an adult. She would have been beautiful like her mother. She had been a very shy child, he likes to think maybe she would have grown up to be a bit like him, odd, but smart.

He glances at Stanislav. He looks so much like Athelstan. Maybe if he saw the two next to each other he could notice the small differences, but with hundreds of years clouding his memory they look one and the same to him. He watches Stanislav’s hands clumsily try to shape the wood. It becomes clear that he is trying to make a spoon. With a sharp movement and a small cry the knife in Stanislav’s hand skids across the wood and cuts his thumb. Blood wells up and Stanislav drops knife and half made spoon. He sticks his thumb in his mouth trying to contain the blood and makes a face at the taste. Floki is quickly up. And around the table. He gently pulls the young man’s hand away from his mouth and looks the cut over in the fire light.

It’s small likely to heal quickly. But even a small cut can become an infection. Floki quickly moves for the small pitcher of water in the center of the table and poor's a bit over Stainislav’s hand, then he searches around in his pouches attached to his belt. He pulls out a small bundle of sage. He rushes to the cabinet that Stanislav had taken the bowls from the night before. He finds another bowl. He places the sage inside then strides back to the table, there he mixes the sage with a bit of water until the leaves become soggy. He picks up the pulpy mess, grabs Stanslav’s hand and smears the leaves across the cut that is still bleeding a bit.

Stanislav says something along the lines of, “это просто небольшой разрез,”

Floki doesn’t understand a word of it and simply takes a clean rag that is sitting on the table and rips off a small strip, tying it around the cut, then standing back with a nod.

Floki’s not sure why he felt the need to act so quickly. He just panicked.

Stanislav looks from his bandaged hand to Floki. Slowly he smiles. The young man’s grateful smile could outshine the sun.

“Спасибо,” Thank you.

Floki feels himself smile back. He quickly drops his smile and runs his fingers across his head, scratching through his bit of hair. The house seems to small suddenly, to hot, Stanislav’s smile to genuine. With a huff he drops his arms and with long strides he leaves the house. The door plonking shut behind him.

Outside is cold, the snow falling again. Floki watches the curling fog of his breath for a moment. He looks up to the dark sky, blinking against the cold snowflakes that kiss his cheeks. “Why do you continue to do this to me? Odin? Christ? Whoever? Have I not suffered enough?” He scowls and throws an arm aimlessly at the sky. “I have buried all my friends, everyone I ever loved. Now you torture me with this boy. Haunt me with the face I’ll never forget.” He spits on the ground. “Curse you, curse all the gods, Oden, Thor, Christ, Allah. I don’t care,”

Later Stanislav, with a lantern, finds Floki curled up in a pile of hay in the barn. He’s wrapped in his fur cloak shivering.

Stanislav gently pulls him up and leads him back home in silence. There he lays out the furs of Floki’s bed roll, gives him a bowl of soup and goes to bed with a soft. “Спокойной ночи, Норвежец.” Goodnight Norseman.

The next morning Stanislav finds a beautifully carved spoon decorated in small flowers and curving lines.

He rushes to find Floki who is out in one of the fields, looking annoyed at a fence post that had fallen in the night.

Stanislav rushes up to him the spoon clutched in his bandaged hand. “Norvezhets! Norvezhets!”

With a jump and a hand on his ax Floki turns to the shorter man, eyes scanning the land for a threat. All he sees is a happy Stanislav holding the spoon he had finished rather than sleeping the night before.

“это прекрасно,” Stanislav holds up the small wooden object with obvious apperartion.

Floki looks from the spoon to the dark haired man’s grinning face. He tries not to think of how a similar smile had been directed at Ragnar so often. Never at him, he and Athelstan had only ever glared at each other. He now begins to understand why everyone else liked the priest so much. How can one not feel appreciated with such a genuine look directed at them.

Stanislav thanks Floki numerous times for the spoon. He even shows all the other residents of the farm. And gives Floki a beautifully patterned blanket to add to his bedroll. He sleeps every night in front of the fire in Stanislav’s home.

Floki soon finds himself carving more, especially as the nights grow longer and the snow drifts higher. He improves the things already on the farm: bowls, mugs, the horse for the twins, even the large table in Stanislav’s home becomes a beautiful object covered in intricate patterns.

Stainislav watches Floki carving the table one day. He sits just a bit too close fascinated eyes watching Floki’s long fingers.

Through his time on the farm Floki has picked up a lot of their language. He can understand basic sentences and even reply a bit.

“I was never good at…” Stanislav gestures to the table.

“I’ve done it a long time,” Floki stands from his hunched position over the table, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. In one hand he holds a chisel, the other a hammer.

His hazel eyes rove over the scene being played out across the oak planks. It’s a fleet of ships, sailing across the clouds. Each one bears the sail of his friends. Ragnar’s red and black leads, with Lagertha’s, Bjorns, Ivar’s and even the Vegvisir of King Harald Finehair drifting behind.

Stanislav traces his fingers across the swerling shapes of the clouds. “You’ve seen real norvezhets ships?”

Floki giggles. “Seen? I have built them. The best ships ever made are mine.”

Stanislav looks surprised. “Built them?”

Floki puts down the carving tools. “I know which wood makes the best ships. I can see it.” His fingers run along one of the table’s planks, he brushes Stanislv’s hand as he does so. “This would have been a good side.”

“I want to see the ships you have made,”

Floki smiles, crinkeling his eyes. “You would have to go far to do so. To Kattegat. If they are still there,” His smile falls.

“What do you mean? Still there?” Stanislav’s eyes roam Floki’s face.

“Things happen. Ships…” he tires to think of the right word. “Fall…”

“Sink,” Stanislav’s calm voice provides the new word.

“Sinks,” Floki repeats. “It has been a long time since I have built a boat,”

“Why?”

Floki’s hands twitch. “All my… friends are gone. Dead. No one needs me to make boats now,”

“You are not very old, how can they all be dead?”

Floki’s eyes fall to the dark haired man’s stormy blue ones. He grins widely. A secret only he knows. “I am much older then I look,”

When spring comes, it comes slowly. The sun creeping ever longer across the sky, the snow melting bit by bit. When blue flowers begin to pop up through the snow Floki knows the winter has ended. He wonders if it’s time for him to move on. It’s Stanislav that convinces him to stay.

Over the long dark winter Floki and the young man had become close. They had whispered stories to each other when the blizzards had raged outside, helped each other through drifts of snow when the barn doors broke open during a violent storm. They had laughed and drank together. Floki hadn’t felt such companionship in a long time. Stainislav’s face still startled him, his voice jogging old memories, but Floki had begun to separate him from the old ghost of Athelstan.

On the first truly warm day of spring Floki sat with the twins on a hill that overlooked the small valley. Despite their initial fear the two had some to adore Floki, they would have him carry them around the farm, one hanging off each arm, they would brade the little blue flowers in his beard and sometimes have him paint on their faces with the black kohl markings he does on himself. He cannot pronounce their real names correctly so he calls them Skalmöld and Eir after two of the Valkyrie. Skalmöld is the braver of the two, she begged Floki to teach her to use a sword and shield, the name ment sword and time. He felt it was very fitting. The other girl Eir is much more reserved and shy. Her name meant calm or mercy. She had agreed with Floki that it was a good name, she just wants everyone to be happy, get along and never shout.

The two girls are making flower crowns and talking about one day being princesses. Floki snorts at this. And tells them, “I knew a princess, her name was Aslaug, and she was terrible,”

“You knew a princess?!” Skalmöld practically screeches in excitement.

Floki groans as the two girls scramble on to his lap and stare up at him with big brown eyes pleading for the details.

“Princess Aslaug was an intelligent and beautiful woman. The daughter of the legendary shieldmaiden Brynhildr and warrior Sigurd who killed the dragon Fafnir. Some people believed she was a witch, she was too beautiful and too cunning. She stole the heart of Ragnar Lothbrok, the great Viking king, who at the time was already married. Ragnar and Aslaug had many sons together. Aslaug could see the future and this drove her to be quite mad and selfish. She left her sons to be raised by others and drank herself away while her kingdom grew on its own. She was killed by the great shield-maiden Lagertha who was Ragnar's first wife. Lagertha then became queen, and she was much better at it,”

“Norvezhets, are you telling the girls violent stories again?” Stanislav’s voice interrupts the story as his head pops up over the hill.

“No!” Floki laughs. “I wouldn’t do that again after how much their mother screamed at me last time. I was telling them about a princess,”

Stanislav frowns. “I heard something about killing,”

“Well, everyone’s story ends eventually,” Floki shrugs.

“It wasn’t too scary,” Skalmöld pipes up.

Stanislav bends down and ruffles her blonde locks. “Nothing scares you does it?”

The little girl puffs up proudly.

The dark haired man chuckles and pats both girls on the head. “You two need to get back home, your mother wants you to help gather the chicken eggs.

“Aww,” Skalmöld wines and Eir just pouts.

“Go on, Norvezhets can tell you more stories later tonight,” Both of the girls make no move to get off Floki’s lap.

He looks between the two of them and then at Stanislav and just shrugs. He was bad enough at being a father for one girl, two is more than he can handle.

“If you don’t get going I'm sure your mother will whack you both with a spoon and send you to bed with no dinner.” This has the girls up immediately and running down the hill.

Floki giggles as he watches them stumble down the hill on their little legs, flowers slipping out of poorly made braids and fluttering to the ground behind them.

Stanislav sits down on the grass next to Floki, he glances at the man from the side of his eye but pays it no mind. Their shoulders brush. The wind gently pushes Stanislav’s curling strands of hair around his face.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Stanislav’s soft voice turns Floki’s head.

Floki tilts his head, cat like, and waiting for the question.

“I know you are a bit of a wanderer. But we have all grown to love you here and… I hope, we all hope you will stay.” Stanislav gives a nervous little smile and starts picking at the grass with his short fingernails. “You don’t have to of course, but then I would just ask that you come back to visit.”

“I will stay,” Floki smiles gently.

Yes he will stay if only for a few years, before the curse becomes obvious, before everyone here can grow old and die. It will hurt to stay, but he already loves them all far too much to go.

“Thank you,” Stanislav’s smile is so pure and warm. The young man stops plucking at the grass and instead rests his hands next to Floki’s and leans back, their fingers brush, but neither moves away.

As spring turns to summer Floki finds himself teaching the young boy, Moroz, how to wield a sword. The young boy is very serious and at first distrusts Floki a lot. He had spent most of the winter avoiding Floki, and glaring at him during shared meals or chores. The child's strange hatred of Floki amuses the Norseman. His amusement seems to annoy Moroz even more.

It’s Moroz’s father who insists Floki teach the boy to fight after seeing Floki throw an axe skillfully into a tree, making the blade get stuck and almost impossible to pull out.

Moroz takes to the training like a bird to flight. He doesn’t hold back from trying to beat Floki, it makes him reckless and too predictable, but he has the potential to be a great fighter. Sometimes Skalmöld sneaks over to watch them, Floki teaches her small hands how to hold an axe, how to take care of a sword. He even builds her a small shield, he practices forming a shield wall with the two children.

Skalmöld’s mother is not happy when she catches Floki teaching her daughter. She’s a serious woman with strong opinions about people's places in the world.

Floki tries to tell her that anyone can learn to fight, and many of the best warriors have been women. He has never understood when people insist someone can not be a warrior because of some physical trait. Skalmöld is a girl yes, but if she wants to hold a sword and shield, why should she not?

It takes a lot of crying and pleading from Skalmöld and some yelling from Floki for her to finally agree to let her daughter train.

On the night she finally breaks down, she slams her hands down on the table in Sanislav’s home and shouts, red faced. “Fine!” Then she points a harsh finger at Floki making his eyes go crossed to look at it. “But she better not ever have to be in an actual fight or danger!”

Shaking his head Floki uncrosses his eyes and grimaces. “It is not for me to decide if she will ever actually need to fight. Only the Gods can know that for sure,”

The twins mother gives him a fierce scowl. The members of the small farming settlement are all Christian, and a few of them, including her, dislike his old Norse religion.

“You’re Christ god would know for sure too,” Floki stands from the table. “Perhaps you should ask him.” He moves away and close to the fire, where Stanislav and Moroz are peeling and chopping carrots. He leans himself on the mantel and turns his head around just enough to see her angry face. “If she ever does have to fight, wouldn’t you prefer she know how?” He sees her scowl fade a little bit. He reaches a hand to the flames and lets his hand dance through the smoke. “The world is a dangerous place, everyone should be able to protect what they love,”

While the winters in this land may be cold, summers can be equally hot. The week before the summer solstice might be the hottest Floki has ever endured. But they have lots of work to do. There will be a large festival at the nearby town, everyone is working extra to gather crops, eggs and trinkets to sell. Moroz is determined to enter the swordsmanship tournament, many moments that Floki is not working on carving things to sell, the boy is following him around asking to train. When the sun finally nears the horizon and there are no more immediate tasks to take care of Floki gives in.

The earth keeps the heat of the day trapped and before long they are both covered in sweat and panting. Floki has dealt with worse the heat and humidity. Paris had been horrible, and he had worn at least three or four layers of clothes and leather armor during those battles. Still for training, sometimes it’s not worth it to exhaust yourself from heat alone.

When he knocks Moroz over and the boy just lays in the dirt breathing heavily with his eyes closed Floki decides it’s time to call it quits. With a heavy sigh he puts his ax back through his belt. “Good job, but remember you cannot rush at me like that and expect to knock me down. I’m twice your size, use that to your advantage. I’m bigger and stronger, but…” Floki leans back to stretch with a grunt. “But if you get in close and learn to dodge you will be able to get in attacks that will take longer for me to block because of my height.” Floki lifts the corner of his light shirt to wipe his face, but the shirt is soaked through, he gives it up as a lost cause and just pulls the whole thing off. “You need to be able to read your opponents.”

Moroz starts to sit up and brushes his dirty hands through the dark strands of his hair. Letting out a huff he nods. “Think I’m ready for the tournament?”  
Floki laughs. “No!”

Moroz pouts up at him. “What!? But I have been training so hard,”

“Yes, yes,” Floki wads up his shirt and tosses it so it lands on a nearby barrel. “But,” He holds up one finger. “Most everyone else will also have been training. It’s a no death competition so use it to learn. You can’t expect everyone you fight to be just like me.”

Moroz nods thoughtfully. “Are you going to join the competition,”

Floki giggles a bit and strokes his beard. “I should,” he gives an impish grin. “I could show people fighting like they have never seen before,” He reaches down and pulls Moroz to his feet.

Stanislav comes out of his home a mug in his hands. “I figured you two need something to drink,” His eyes move up and down Floki’s chest, pausing on old scars and the many tattoos that scroll across his skin. “Ah, here,” He holds out the mug to Floki, his eyes looking shyly up at Floki’s, his cheeks a little pink.

Floki takes the mug, making sure his fingers trail across Stanislav’s. His blue eyes drop quickly. The Norseman smirks and takes a long drink of water.

“You two have been training hard, it’s good to know we will have at least two people to protect our home. And when ДОРОТЕЯ” Skalmöld’s real name, “is older we will have three,”

He keeps glancing at Floki and then away.

After a long drink Floki hands the mug to Moroz. The kid finishes the rest of it quickly and heads into the house to get himself more.

When the door shuts behind him, Stanislav looks back up at Floki. “If you join the contest it would be quite exciting to see, I haven’t seen you use your full skills as I’m sure you don’t want to hurt Moroz,”

Floki nods. “I am very good, but I’ve had years of practice, and more than my fair share of injuries. Floki points to a ragged scar on his lower left side. “This was from the greatest fighter I’ve ever met. His name was Rollo. He nearly killed me.” Floki makes a face. “I never forgave him,”

“You have a lot of scars. How many battles have you been in?”

Floki tilts his head to the sky and starts twisting his hands around by his sides. “Too many, I’ve lost count,”

“How many people have you killed?” Stanislav’s eyes trace across Floki’s long limbs.

Faces, too many faces, flash before Floki’s eyes. It hurts his head the voices, and faces, and screams. “Thousands,”

Stanislav seems to sense that Floki’s emotions are too strong and he changes the subject. “What do your tattoos mean?” He reaches one hand out and pauses over the image of a raven that flies across his shoulder.

Floki’s eyes clear of visions as he looks down. “That is the three eyed raven of Oden the Alfather and the symbol of my dearest friend who was descended from Oden.” He steps closer so that Stanislav’s hand touches his warm skin. Stanislav’s face brightens with a blush again but he keeps his fingers on the norseman’s skin. He traces across the birds wing and to a set of runes that are scribed in a v across his chest. “These?” He looks up at Floki though his dark eye lashes. “Writing in your language?”

“They are the names of all my friends who have gone to Valhalla,”

Stanislav flattens his hand against Floki’s chest and the norseman takes a shuddering slow breath.

“The ones on your head?”

He had shaved his head at the end of winter. Floki ducks down a bit so Stanislav can better see the black lines. Their eyes meet. Their faces so close.

“Words of strength, asking for the power of Thor and Oden,”

“Oh,” Stanislav’s breath puffs against Floki’s lips.

The old boat builder feels his eyes slip closed. He knows what he is expecting to happen, but nothing does. He feels Stanislav pull away and when he opens his hazel eyes the young man is walking away.

He glances back at Floki, his cheeks pink, but with a playful smile on his face. “You’ll want to take a bath in the stream, Norvezhets, you stink,”

Floki might be a fool but he is not an idiot.

He knows what is happening between him and Stanislav. He knows it’s frowned upon by the Christians. And he feels racked with guilt that he could feel like this about someone after the loss of his dear Helga.

That night as he settles into his furs on the floor he sees Stanslav’s door open a crack. It’s an invitation.

He doesn’t take it. Instead, he stares at the dark strip behind the wood for a long while. When he knows sleep will not come to him that night he stands and silently creeps outside. The night air is still warm, not the oppressive heat of the day but instead the calm warmth of nature welcoming it’s creatures to bask in its beauty.

With steady steps he makes his way onto the top of one of the hills that surround the little farm.

He sits and his fingers pick at the grass, plucking strands, twisting them and tying them together thoughtlessly as he looks up at the stars.

He stops plucking the grass and folds his knees to his chest wrapping his arms around them and rocking gently.

“Helga, sweet Helga,” He wipers into the dark. “You left a hole in me that no time will fix. Took the last of my happiness…” He ducks his head so the world is blotted out behind his knees. “I loved you with all of me, I still love you with all of me, but this man… He makes me feel happy again. I thought I was to wander this world miserable, and I know he will grow old and die while I live on, but it want to be selfish,” He hisses the last word as his eyes begin to run over with tears. “I want to take this one thing in three hundred years and hold it close.” He lifts his head again and sniffs. “Would you hate me if I love him? I don’t know,” He lets out a high giggle that's half laugh half hiccup. “You would probably laugh at me for being dramatic, for falling like this for a man who looks so much like that long dead priest. Maybe that's another revenge from the Gods. Make me love a man like the one I used to hate,” He shakes his head and closes his eyes against the tears that now drip from his eyes. He gulps down a ragged breath. “Tell me… tell me you want me to be happy. That it is okay to feel again,”

A soft wind drifts across his face and with it comes a gentle hand that runs across his head.

His eyes spring open and he sees her. Just as beautiful as she was in life, dressed in orange and gold, eyes painted dark and hair drifting around her in the gentle breeze.

Floki breaths out slowly his face struck in awe.

She smiles at him. Soft, so loving, tinged with a bit of longing. Her fingers cool against his skin hold the back of his head. With movements to graceful for the mortal world she leans over him and pulls his head toward her. His eyes flutter closed as her lips press against his forehead. He feels light and warmth and love flow through him. He lets out a sob. Her hands move to his cheeks where they brush against his beard. He opens his eyes to her.  
“This world is too small for you, Floki,”

He feels her touch began to fade and he reaches out his hands to cling to her but she’s already gone, there is nothing but the still night air in front of him.


	3. The First (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go... more! At the moment this story is about 30,000 words long and only half way written.   
> Also thank you to everyone so far for the kudos and comments! They really keep me motivated.   
> I am in the middle of moving right now so writing has slowed down some but it will get finished! 
> 
> Also just warning, there is sex in this chapter, it's not descriptive at all. I don't write smut.

The door to Stanislav's room stays open each night but Floki does not enter.   
On the longest day of the year the whole farming community, all eleven people, load carts with goods to sell and trade. The town isn't far. When they arrive, the place is in full swing, flowers decorating the doors, traders, farmers, and blacksmiths all shouting about having the best of something. 

All the adults work together to get their goods set up and organized for selling, while the kids go off to play with the other children. It’s hot but the people of the town are all in good spirits.

At about mid afternoon the boys fighting challenges begin. Moroz wins a round and then loses the next, scraping his elbow when the other kid is able to trip him. Floki and the others cheer him on from the sides. When he loses he throws his wooden practice sword down and stomps off in an angry teen aged huff.

When the adult contest begins, Floki volunteers to fight.

The adults get to use real weapons but are not allowed to kill. 

There are a few rounds before Floki gets in. The set up is that two people fight, who ever wins moves on fights someone new, if the new person wins then the old person is swapped out, and on and on. The first man Floki is up against is easy. He’s short, older, and obviously not very experienced. He runs straight at Floki, the Norseman simply ducks his wild sword swing and throws him over his shoulder and onto the ground. Gracefully Floki spins around and holds his ax bade to the back of the man's neck as he struggles to get up, surprised to find himself on the ground. 

The second man is more of a challenge, he is wearing the rough leather uniform that marks out the few members of the local watch. He uses a short sword and is able to block Floki’s fast, wild axe swings. His own swings back are steady and predictable Floki is able to dodge them easily or parry them away. After a bit the watchmen begins to grow frustrated as Floki dances away from each swing. 

“Stand still damn you!”

Floki lets out a high laugh. This really gets the watchmen angry. With a loud growl he swings at Floki’s neck. The boat builder spryly takes a few steps back. The watchman swings for his legs. He jumps over the low sword with another laugh. Face red with rage at being taunted, the next swing is wild and goes wide. Swiftly Floki uses his ax, catching the blade with the curved end of it. Violently he pulls down and to the side, ripping the short sword from the watchman’s hands. 

The crowd cheers for Floki as the watchman raises his hands in surrender. 

The watchman, sorely beat grabs his sword while mumbling about how Floki “Danced around like a damn wood elf.”

No new challenger appears. Floki holds his ax loosely and walks around the circle of the crowd that forms the fighting ring. 

“Does this mean I win?” He stops in front of Stanislav, who grins at him. 

“I would like to fight!” A deep voice causes Floki to whip around. 

A man, tall as a mountain and wide as a bear, with thick dark hair, pushes through the crowd. 

He is covered in tattoos and old scars; he holds a long sword by his side. 

Tilting sideways and stalking into the middle Floki sizes the man up. “Time to get serious,” He grins. “May I have a second ax?”

The man nods. 

Someone in the crowd tosses Floki a short handled ax. He tests the weight a bit and throws it a few times. Deeming it suitable. He tilts his head back to the challenger. 

Taking that as the queue to start the man hefts the long sword in both hands and moves so he’s closer to the middle of the circle. Floki begins to stalk around the edge, axes loosely bouncing in each hand. 

The man turns with him keeping his eyes locked on Floki’s. 

“Come on you twig!” The large man growls. 

A few high giggles escape Floki’s lips. On his next step he suddenly turns and rushes at the man. He blocks Floki’s axes with a mighty push. Floki stumbles back a bit.  
He quickly regains balance and strikes again. This time the long sword only blocks one of the axes and the other swings at the mans middle, he is forced to jump backwards or risk a bad cut. 

Spinning with the momentum of his swing, Floki strikes again. Unexpectedly the man is ready for this. He pushes aside the axes and brings up and elbow slamming Floki right in the nose. 

The Boat Builder hears a crunch and reels back. Blood begins gushing from his nose and all down his tunic. He touches his fingers to just below his nose and blinks a moment at the red of his own blood. 

While he is distracted the man gives a mighty roar and swings his huge sword down. Just in time, Floki brings up his ax and blocks the attack, one handed. It’s not as hard as it would be in a true battle, the large man had pulled back a bit, not actually wanting to cleave the Norseman in half. 

Using the hooked end of the ax again Floki pulls the great sword to the side with a cry of anger. His other ax swings a bit wildly bit manages to catch the edge of the man's arm, nicking him with a shallow cut. 

The beast of a man hardly blinks at the wound. 

Using the momentum of Floki pulling his great sword down he makes a swing at Floki’s leg. He is forced to jump out of the way. In his swing the man leaves his whole right side unprotected. 

The Norseman aims for it, hoping to get a shallow cut.

Floki misses his swing by a hair's width. He quickly jumps away from the man getting out of range from the reach of the long sword. 

They are back to the beginning. The man in the middle and Floki stalking around the outside. 

He wipes under his nose with a sleeve. His tunic is utterly ruined, stained with drying blood. 

The man turns with Floki, his sword held out in front to block any attack. 

Floki is thinking, hazel eyes flicking from place to place. He needs an opening, a surprise.

Faster than the blink of an eye Floki throws one of the axes and the mans feet. It purposefully misses, but has exactly the effect Floki wants. The man jumps back in surprise and drops his guard. Floki leaps in close, getting slightly behind the man. He holds up the ax to the man's neck, breathing heavy.

The huge man laughs. “Well done! I yield!” 

Floki drops his ax and wipes his nose again. “Did you have to break my nose?” He scowls.

“Sorry sorry,” the man shrugs. “I’ll make it up to you with drinks, yes?”

Floki rolls his neck. “Fair enough,” He smirks at the man, then reaches out his hand. The man claps Floki’s arm and the boat builder does the same. 

“Best fight I’ve had in ages! My name’s Radomir!” 

“Norvezhets,” Floki replies.

Stanislav, comes running up to the two of them. “Norvezhets! Well done! That was quite amazing!”

“Oh!” Radomir looks between the two. “I had heard that Stanislav’s farm had gained a mysterious new resident! So you are him! No one around here is good at fighting! You are very good at fighting.”

“Yes,” Stanislav smiles looking up at the two taller men. “He showed up in the middle of a blizzard, hardly spoke a word of our language. I thought at first he was some spirit of winter come to stay.” Stanislav's eyes turn to Floki. "But actually he was just a lost traveler." The young man turns back to Radomir. "He makes the most amazing carvings, come by our stand if goods and I'll show you."

“You're as tall and thin as a tree, guess it makes sense you would also be good at carving trees. Good to have a new face in town,” Radomir lifts his arm around Floki's shoulder and begins pulling him. “Come let me get those drinks!”

Radomir, ends up being quite the jolly fellow. He drinks deeply and laughs loudly. Floki likes him. 

As the sun sets Floki sits on a barrel with a mug of ale cradled in his hands while Stanislav looks his nose over. He wipes the blood gently away with a rag. “It’s definitely broken, but I don’t think we will have to reset it.”

Floki looks down at his bloodied tunic. “This was my nice tunic,” He picks at the wool. 

“We can get you a new one,” Stanislav’s smile is sympathetic. 

Slowly, Floki puts down his mug and begins lifting off the ruined clothing. Stanislav helps him keeping it away from his swollen nose. When it’s off Stanislav’s blue eyes check the rest of him for injuries, he’s pleased to find none. 

“Come on,” Stanislav turns around and starts walking off toward a large stand set up by one of the traveling traders. “Let’s find you something new.” 

They manage to find a nice replacement, it’s green like a deep pine forest with leaves embroidered around the collar. It’s comfortable and nice. Certainly the nicest tunic Floki has worn in along time. Stanislav spends a lot on it, Floki tries to insist that he will pay him back, but the young farmer will hear none of it. Floki already works, that is enough. 

It’s late when the group packs up and heads back to the farm. The moon is high over head. Eir and Skalmöld had fallen asleep in the back of one of the carts hours ago and Moroz quickly joins them, even after insisting he isn’t tired. 

Floki and Stanislav sit on the last of their three carts. Floki’s nose is already beginning to hurt less. He is sure that in less than a few days it will be fully healed again. 

In the dark he looks over to Stanislav. 

The young man glances back out of the side of his eyes. “A good day?”

Floki smiles, “A good day.” He places his hands on the carts bench and leans back to look at the stars. 

He feels a hand slowly move over his and the fingers interlock. He looks back down at Stanislav but his eyes are fixed on the road. Floki smiles. 

They remain like that. 

Getting back to the farm is not much of a relief, the children are cranky as they awake only to be sent to bed. The animals must be fed, the carts unloaded. 

When it’s all done, the night is nearly over. Stanislav thanks everyone for their hard work and declares that they can all sleep in the next day. 

Floki heads into the house and prepares his bed roll. Stanislav enters a moment later. He watches Floki for a moment.

“You don’t have to sleep there.”

Floki looks up at him in confusion. 

The dark haired man does not clarify, he just reaches out to Floki. 

Dazed the Norseman stands and takes his hand. 

Keeping their eyes locked, and walking backwards, Stanislav leads Floki through the door to his bedroom. 

Inside is plain. There is a medium sized bed, a little window, its shutters closed, and a bureau for clothing. A small iron cross hangs over the bed. 

Wide eyed Floki is lead to the bed and pushed to sit down. Smiling, coyly, Stanislav begins to undress. 

At first Floki’s eyes stare in awe and incomprehension. Then need takes over. He grabs onto Stanislav with greedy hands. He pulls the young man down onto him. Stanislav laughs as he falls against the Northman. 

Floki thinks he could never tire of that laugh. 

After, as the sun begins to rise and Floki begins to fall asleep, his long limbs snaked around Stanislav’s smaller form, possessive, he realizes they never kissed.

Each night Floki sleeps in Stanislav’s bed. They still roll out the bed roll each night for the illusion that he sleeps there and Floki wakes early each morning to make sure no one finds the two of them together. 

They don’t kiss on the lips. 

Stanislav likes to run is mouth across Floki’s tattoos, and scars. He kisses them, traces them asks about every little cut and every line of runes.

Floki bites Stanislav’s shoulders, his ears, and neck. He kisses the younger man's face, his forehead his cute nose, even on his eyelids that gently close over his sea blue irises. But not on his lips. Floki finds himself hesitant. As if after all they have done together, it would be one thing too much. It would admit he loves another man.

Sometimes it’s all too much for Floki, the little farm, the children, Stalnislav. Floki will leave then, he will wander the woods hunting, praying or making sacrifices to the gods. 

It’s so peaceful. So happy. Floki does not trust being happy for too long. 

Summer becomes fall and fall becomes winter. 

The harsh blizzards that plague the land start again. 

During one of these storms the wind is so fierce everyone piles into Stanislav’s home, it’s the biggest and most well built. Misha is worried about the animals in the barn. It was damaged in the last blizzard not more than three days before and they had yet to repair it. 

Floki and the old man peer at the building through the cracks in the shuttered windows. They can hardly see it the snow is so thick. 

“The animals might get hurt,” Misha twists his hands around nervously. “We should move them… maybe to my home.” 

Floki’s eyes watch the barn. He thinks maybe it’s beginning to slant sideways. 

“Let’s go,” Floki grabs his pelt cloak, wool gloves and a large fur cap. He steps outside, the other men all similarly bundled up behind him. 

They have set up lines of rope between the buildings, the snow is blinding and they have to rely on the rope to find their way to the barn. 

First they have to dig out one of the doors. When they pull it open it swings with the wind and nearly rips Floki’s arm off. 

Inside it is clear from the ominous sounds that the barn won’t be standing much longer. Grabbing halters and ropes the men begin pulling the pigs, sheep, horses, and single cow out. 

Floki goes for one of the horses, it’s frightened whinnying, its eyes rolling. 

It takes a while to get the halter tied. When he tries to pull the animal out it starts bucking. 

The wood of the barn screams. 

Stanislav’s voice screams too. “Norvezhets! Leave him!” 

Floki looks at the door. 

Stanislav’s wild eyes look back.

The door is slanting around him. The wind howls, the horse screams, the wood cracks and buckles. 

Floki looks up to see the roof coming down.

Weak sun shines across Floki’s face. He frowns and blinks open his eyes. 

The ceiling of Stanislav’s room looks back. 

“Norvezhets?”

He turns his head. Everything hurts.

Stanislav is sitting in a chair next to the bed. 

“Thank god.” The young man stands, tears coming to his eyes. “Thank god,” He takes Floki’s hand. “You’re awake,” Stanislav lets out a sob and he lifts Floki’s hand to his face.

The northman tries to speak but all that comes out is a dry cough. Stanislav drops his hand and grabs a mug of water. He lifts up Floki’s head and holds the cup to his   
mouth. 

Floki takes a few sips, it hurts. He waves the cup away weakly.

Stanislav, kneels by the side of the bed. He takes Floki’s hand again. 

“Do you know where you are? Who I am? Who you are?”

Floki clears his throat. “I’m in your bedroom, you are Stanislav, I am Norvezhets,” He looks over to make sure that’s all right. 

“Yes!” The young man's smile is filled with joy despite the tears still running down his face. 

Floki doesn’t want him to cry. He untangles his hand from Stanislav and wipes away a tear. He leaves his long fingers to cup the young man’s face. “What happened?” Floki tries to remember but it hurts. There’s nothing but an empty space in his mind where events should have been.

“There was a storm,” Stanislav hiccups. “It blew down the barn while we got the animals out. You were still inside! I… I thought you were dead,” Stanislav sobs again and he covers Floki’s hand on his cheek with his own. 

“I’m still here,” He tries to smile, it’s more of a grimace. He should be dead, again.

“It’s… it’s been three days,” Floki wipes away another tear. “We thought you would never wake up.”

“I’ll be alright.” 

Tears begin to run like a river down Stanislav’s pale cheeks, his eyes like an ocean spilling over. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Floki tries, to shush him, gently. “You won’t have to know.”

Stanislav brings his face close to Floki’s, eyes fluttering shut, a tear rolls down his cheek and onto Foki’s own. 

“Don’t weep, I’m alright, I’m always alright.” Ignoring the pain Floki lifts his other arm and runs his hand through Stanislav’s thick hair. 

Stanislav presses his lips to Floki’s forehead. 

“I love you, Norvezhets.”

He kisses Floki’s forehead again. 

“I love you.”

His cheek. 

“I love you.”

His other cheek, his nose, his chin. Each with another whisper of those words. 

Their breath intermingles, almost touching. Almost.

“I love you, Stanislav.”

Floki grins and pulls their lips together. 

It’s been hundreds of years, Stanislav’s short beard is scratchy, his tears salty. 

He kisses Floki back peacefully, at first. 

He freezes. 

He pulls back. His eyes wide. Frightened. 

Floki’s gaze darts across his face. Did he do something wrong? What happened? Why is he so scared. 

“Floki?”

Floki has never been so still in his life. His name whispered in that familiar voice. He never told Stanislav his real name.

“Hvordan?” The norse word for how. “Hva?” What.

That face, those eyes, that voice.

“Floki? Hva skjer?” Stanislav lets go of Floki’s hand. His eyes look them over in confusion. “Er jeg død? Jeg burde være død?” He should be dead.

Floki’s body tenses, ready to run despite the pain.

“Athelstan?”

“Du drepte meg,” You killed me.

Floki shoves Stanislav, no, Athelstan away. He leaps out of the bed and runs out the bedroom door. 

Misha and Moroz are in the main area.

“Norvezhets?!” They both call after him as he runs. He doesn’t hear them. He is out the door, not pausing to grab boots or cloak. The snow is cold, his bones hurt, but he does not feel it. He just runs, and runs until he collapses in the deep snow. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. Long enough for the sun to begin to set. Long enough to hear the others calling for him. “Norvezhets?!” “Norvezhets!” “Where are you?” He hears Athelstan’s voice above them all. “Floki!” He screams. 

That voice. 

He pulls himself out of the snow and stumbles off again. Trying to get away.

“Floki?! Where are you?! FLOKI?”

Floki leaves the cold lands on the first ship he can find that will take him. 

It takes him a month to heal from his broken body and frostbitten limbs. 

He sees the world. He goes to warm places, desserts to the south so big they could take five years for a man to cross alone. 

He tries to forget the cold. Forget blue eyes and happy smiles.


	4. In-between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I just moved into a new apartment in a new town. To celebrate, here is a new chapter!  
> It's a bit short but hopefully you like it.

Fifty years he is gone. But by his will or that of the gods, he comes back. Back to the little valleys and rolling hills. 

The farm is bigger now. More homes, more people. 

It’s spring and the people are busy planting and tilling the soil.

He doesn’t plan to go down. He just watches, looking to see a head of dark hair. He supposes by now he might need to look for white hair. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, so lost in his thoughts. He does hear the thunk of something dropped, the exhale. 

“Norvezhets?”

Floki whips around. 

A woman stands on the path to the nearby stream, a basket of wet laundry spilled across the ground.

“My god,” She is tall and strong, grey streaks shoot through her blond hair. “My god, it is you.”

She lets out a cry that is both a sob and a scream of happiness and she launches herself into his arms.

“Skalmöld?” 

She laughs. “Yes! Yes!”

He hesitant hugs her back.

After a long moment. She pulls back. Her eyes rove over him, shocked.

“How is it that you are still here?” She grabs his face and looks it over. “You haven’t aged...” She whispers. 

“Yes…” Floki looks away from her eye contact, his hands twitch. “I…” He starts, not even sure what he is going to say.

Skalmöld cuts him off. “You were looking for Stanislav weren't you?”

He nods. 

She looks down silently. “He’s… he’s gone, it’s been ten winters.”

Floki feels such a weight settle in his chest. All this time. All this time, he roamed midgard avoiding what he did, because he is a coward. Now. Now there is no chance to apologize. 

“Show me.”

She takes his hand in her own. A woman’s hand. Not a child, not a child for a long time.

She leads him to the top of one of the hills. There are several stone piles marking graves. She nods to the first. It’s beginning to be covered in moss. “Misha, he died that same winter you left.”

Floki bends down and touches the stones closing his eyes. 

Skalmöld lets him have a moment. 

The next grave is smaller. A child. 

“This is my son’s grave…” Skalmöld touches the stones. “He got sick, and just didn’t get better…” She pinches her face. “I miss him everyday.”

“I am sorry,” it’s all he can say.

She smiles mournfully at him, stands, and holds a hand out to the next grave. “Stanislav.”

Floki stands from Misha's grave and steps to the edge of the stones. He stares at it for a moment. It’s just like looking down at the leaves that had covered Ragnar. Just like placing Helga gently down one last time. He wants to touch the stones but he can’t. 

“I’m sure he hated me.”

Skalmöld looks at him confused. “No,” She scoffs. “No not at all! He never stopped looking for you. He was so lost after you left. He wasn’t the same.”

“That’s because he was someone else,” Floki’s hands are balled into fists. 

Skalmöld’s blond eyebrows bunch together. “I don’t understand, he was Stanislav.” 

“Yes,” Floki crouches. His hand reaches out but does not touch. “Yes, and no. He remembered. Remembered who he used to be. And what I did to him.”

Slowly, slowly, his fingers brush the closest rock. 

They are quiet for so long. 

“I don’t know what you possibly could have done to him…” Skalmöld’s voice isn’t more than a whisper. “But he loved you… that… That I know for sure.”

The two of them remain on the hill until the sun sets. They speak quietly about where Floki has been, what happened to Moroz, Eir and everyone else. Floki is glad to hear they are all still alive, Moroz and Eir got married, they have two sons and a daughter. Skalmöld has used her fighting skills, both at the summer solstice festival and protecting the farm from wolves one harsh winter. He is so proud of her. 

She never asks again how he is alive and young. 

When the sun sets behind the horizon she stands, brushing off her dress. “They are probably looking for me now. You won’t come down to the farm?”

He remains sitting and shakes his head. 

“I understand,” She looks out across the little valley, peaceful.

“You don’t want to know how I’m still alive?” Part of him wanted to tell her, to have another soul know.

“I always figured there was something magical about you,” She smiles at him. “You must be one of the fae, or even one of the old gods of the north.”

He smiles back. 

She picks up her basket of laundry, bends down and kisses the top of his head. “When they ask where I was I’ll tell them I found a familiar stranger.” 

He laughs a bit at that. “Goodbye Skalmöld.”

“Goodbye, Norvezhets.”


	5. The Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you all! A bit of a short one.  
> I also want to thank everyone who has been commenting and kutosing! It really means a lot to me that people are reading and loving this story! I'm putting a lot of work and effort into it. It's almost 35,000 words long right now. I honestly thought I would get one or two comments and maybe a few kutos, considering it's a small fandom and an even smaller pairing! You guys are amazing!

It’s not long before Floki finds Athelstan again. Only fifty years. He had wondered if Stanislav had been a one time thing, if he would find the priest again as someone else. And if he did, would he remember. 

He gets his answer when he boards a ship bound for the far east. It’s a trading vessel, filled with goods. Floki boards the boat in Suez, Egypt, hired by the captain as a mercenary against any dangers they may face at sea. Floki is glad to be leaving the heat and sand of the desert. He does like the pyramids and ancient ruins. Things built before even him, but it is time to move on. 

Floki doesn’t meet the owner of the ship until a few moments before they leave. The Northman is standing at the rail looking out into the water of the Gulf of Suez when there is a commotion from where the last of the goods are being hauled up. 

Floki turns and shields his eyes from the bright sun. A man, dressed in a fine long tunic, with a leather belt covered in jewels has stepped on board. His skin is tanned from many days out in the sun. He’s older, bits of grey beginning to streak through his temples, but Floki knows that face. 

The old boat builder panics but as soon as he thinks to make a dash for the dock they are shoving off. He debates jumping into the water but that would probably cause even more commotion. 

The man who is Athelstan, and also isn’t, looks satisfied as his eyes scan the ship. His blue irises pause a moment on Floki, giving him a curious look. 

Floki knows he must look very odd, his skin so pale and his whole figure tenced. But there is no recognition, no shout of his name.

The man says something to the crew in Arabic. 

Floki doesn't understand it very well, but gets the gist, he is introducing himself and talking about the long journey ahead. His name is Alexandru.

The Norseman turns back to the waters. His fists clenched against the rail of the ship. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. 

He doesn’t know him. Doesn’t remember him. All Floki has to do is keep his distance and leave at the first city they make port in. 

Opening his eyes back up, he resolves himself to not speak to this Alexandru, not touch him, even avoid all eye contact. 

A hand grips Floki’s shoulder and he tenses, violently. He spins his head to see the Captain looking sheepish for startling Floki.

“Sorry,” the captain says in a gravelly voice. He and Floki have to speak in a stop and go form of Arabic as Floki has yet to master the language. The Captain gestures next to himself, Aexandru is standing next to the Captain, a pleasant smile on his face. 

Floki feels his knees give out when his eyes meet the familiar storm blue. He has to catch himself on the rail. 

“Introduce?” The Captain gestures between them. 

Alexandru gives the captain a worried glance, noticing how Floki nearly fell over. He says something in rapid Aribic. “هل أنت واثق؟”   
Floki looks between the two nervously. 

He understands a bit when the Captain answers yes to whatever the question is and explains that Floki does not speak much arabic. 

Alexandru looks back to Floki. He asks “Est-ce que tu parles français?”

Francais, that’s what Rollo learned to speak when he betrayed Ragnar. Floki shakes his head. 

“Do you speak English?” Alexandru asks.

“Yes,” His voice sounds breathless and he clears his throat. “Yes, though my original language is Norse.”

“Norse!” Alexandru laughs, it crinkles the crows feet at the edges of his eyes. “That is a language I have not spoken in a long time.” He says it in perfect Norse, he has a slight accent Floki cannot place. “My name is Alexandru, I own this ship and I am your employer for this journey.”

“Floki,” He utters his name while looking off into the distance behind Alexandru’s shoulder. 

“Floki,” the dark haired man nods. “Well according to our dear Captain he has hired you as my bodyguard for this trip. So we will be seeing a lot of each other.”

Floki can only let out a little grunt of surprise.

“I am a very rich man, there are many who would like to steal from me. I hope I can trust you with my life,” Alexandru’s face is all business. A seriousness Floki has rarely seen before. 

He meets his new employers eyes. Takes in his face. The face that haunts his dreams and memories, he knows he would never hurt this man. Not again. 

“You can trust me. You can trust me with your life.” He tilts his head but keeps his eyes steady. “I would never harm you.”

Floki avoids Alexandru as much as he possibly can, it’s hard in such a small space, he seems to seek Floki out. Sits with him to eat, asks about his life, his gods. He takes every opportunity to touch Floki. Hand’s lingering too long on passed objects, fingers drifting across Floki’s arms and back to gain his attention. 

He longs for those brief touches, for the man’s smile, his laugh. This is what Athelstan would have looked like if he had lived longer, what Stanislav must have looked like. 

Floki wants to hold him and never let go, pull the other man into him, linger their spirits together, to make up for his failures, to apologize.

Every time their eyes meet, he worries he will see those old eyes of a long dead priest. It never happens.

It’s only a few days before they will make port in a place called Mumbai. Floki plans to jump ship upon arrival. He is a coward. 

The old Boat Builder is pulled away from a piece of driftwood he has randomly been carving by Alexandru. “Floki.”

He looks up and squints from the sun.

“Floki, I found some mead from your homeland down in the storage!” He holds up a bottle of amber liquid. “I was wondering if you would care for a drink?”

Floki huffs and pulls himself up off the deck. “Shouldn’t you keep it to trade?”

“Ah,” Alexandru waves his hand. “I have plenty to trade already.”

Floki shrugs. He’s not really the type to pass up a good drink. 

Alexandru leads him into the small cabin in the ship that serves as Alexandru’s living quarters. It’s the only area in on the ship dedicated to being a living area. The crew, captain and Floki sleep in cots with the cargo. 

The little room is fancy, it has a finely carved bed against one wall, the mattress probably stuffed with feathers, a large desk takes up most of another wall, it has papers and maps nailed down to it, and a large golden cross is hung above the desk, inlaid with red jewels. 

Floki had found out soon into his acquaintance with Alexandru that the man is a Christian, it doesn’t surprise him. 

Alexandru pulls out two beautiful glasses from the desk. He pours them both a generous amount. He hands one to Floki with a smile. “Tell me what you think of it.” 

Fingers brushing Alexandru’s, he takes the glass. “Skol,” He tips the glass and drinks, his eyes locked on the merchants. There's something oddly intense about it. 

“Skol,” Alexandru replies, draining his own glass. 

The drink is sweet. 

They end up finishing the whole bottle and then breaking out a bottle of wine. Floki doesn't care much for the wine, but alcohol is alcohol.

Floki lays giggling on Alexandru’s bed. It’s so soft, he feels like he could sleep there forever. Alexanderu sits next to him, his fingers running mindlessly across the lines of tattoo on Floki’s head. 

“H-have you ever been in love?” The question hits Floki out of thin air.

“What?” His eyebrows scrunch. 

“You heard me,” Alexandru tilts over Flokis face from his sitting position. 

“I-I…” Floki thinks through his alcohol muddled thoughts. “I have… I’ve loved friends, and my daughter, and my wife… and… and...”

“I haven’t.” 

Floki’s face falls in sadness, he reaches up and smooths the wrinkles that wave across Alexandru’s forehead. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.” The merchant nods sagely. “All my life… all my life I’ve traveled trying to fix this… black pit in my heart. Traveling is good, I meet so many people. But the hole is still there,” Floki nods along like he understands. “I tried to fill it with god. It worked for a little. Now I’m getting old.”

“Not too old,” Floki interrupts him.

Alexandru smiles fondly. “Older, and I felt like it would never be fixed, never whole, but… but…” His eyes drift away from Floki. “Here, right here, now… I feel whole…”

“It’s just the drink,” Floki frowns.

“No!” Those blue eyes are back on his. “No! I realized it’s you! It’s you! Floki!” 

His smile is so bright. Floki sees the same smile in his memories, so many times. He shuts his eyes and tries to shove his feelings away. 

“You are wrong.”

“I am not.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done, who I am.”

“It doesn’t matter.” 

Floki opens his eyes again. Alexandru is peering down at him still, eyes full of want. 

Achingly slow he starts to bend down. Floki’s breath speeds up, hands skittering across the bed. Closer and closer. He feels Alexandru’s honeyed breath across his lips. 

He wants this. He wants it so much.

Violently, Floki shoves Alexandru away and runs out the door. 

He sits at the bow of the ship for the rest of the day and into the night. Eventually he falls asleep, curled next to some rigging. 

Someone lays a blanket over him in the night. 

When they make port in Mumbai Floki flees the ship.


	6. The Third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone for your amazing support and comments!  
> I love working on this story, though the part I'm writing at the moment has slowed me down quite a bit, just trying to figure out exactly how I want events to play out, but for now enjoy the new chapter!

The town is not large nor is it exactly small. Nestled in a pretty area of East England, Floki has no idea what the name of it is, only that they have an inn. It must be Sunday when he arrives for the towns people are missing and he hears Latin being uttered from inside the large stone church at the center of town. 

Something about the great monolith of a building with its one tall spire and stained glass windows calls to the Norseman. He steps silently through one of the wooden doors and takes in the place. People stand their heads bowed facing toward a large carved marble altar and cross, the figure of Jesus nailed upon it. 

The carving doesn’t hold Floki’s attention for long. 

A young man stands in front of the alter, facing toward the crowd, his hands clasped in prayer, dark curls bowed. 

Floki nearly swears. Of course. Of course it’s him. 

He could just leave. Wander away. He hasn’t met him again since Alexandru. It had been nearly a century. He had hoped the gods had tired of taunting him. 

His foot pivots to leave but then the young priest's head lifts. His eyes opening. From so far away Floki cannot see the color but he feels as if he is pinned in place by those eyes. 

He does not leave. He remains at the back, hidden in shadow until the ceremonies are all finished and the townspeople have all left.

The young priest has his back to the room as he begins cleaning up the bread and wine from the ceremony.

“Little priest,”

The young man jumps and whips around. His wide eyes darting across the room before landing on Floki as he steps from the shadows. 

He is so young. Perhaps as young as the first time they had met so many hundreds of years ago.

“Hello? Who… Who are you?” His wide eyes remind Floki of a rabbit about to flee.

The boatman steps fully out of the shadows and walks forward, stalking. He’s angry. Angry that the gods would bring him back to Athelstan. Angry at Athelstan for appearing once again. Angry for the love and guilt he feels. Has he not paid long enough for his crime?

With steady steps Floki walks up the stone stairs to the alter. 

The young priest shrinks back against the marble, eyes darting, ready to run.

Floki’s hand comes to the axe resting by his hip, his other reaching out to grab. As his long fingers encircle the boys wrist he flinches violently and shuts his eyes tight.

All the anger leaves Floki in a sudden rush. 

The young priest’s body shakes with every breath. Floki remains still, one hand on his axe, the other circling a bony wrist. 

One blue eye cracks open and looks quickly up and down, then clenches shut again. “Aren't you going to kill me?” 

The whisper brakes Floki’s stance and he drops his hand on the axe and kneels before the young priest his other hand pulling the boy’s other arm down from where its tightly held against his chest. 

“Shhh,” Floki shushes gently. “I am sorry I frightened you.”

The young priests blue eyes crack open again and he looks at the Northman kneeling before him. 

“W-what do you want?” Floki can barely hear the priest's voice. 

He is silent for a moment. He has realized now and through each iteration of Athelstan that the man is slightly different each time, molded by events around him. The first Athelstan had been brave, the second kind, the third bold, this version… there is something desperately wrong. 

“I only meant to introduce myself.” He squeezes the boy’s bony wrists then drops them. “My name is Floki, I am a traveler, come to this town.”

“Oh,” the priest folds his freed arms protectively across his chest. “You... you did not participate in the sacrament.”

Floki shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe in your god .” 

The priest bites his lip in confusion. “Why are you here then?”

Floki’s face is sincere. “Something called to me.” You. You called to me.

The boat builder stands, the boys eyes rise with him. He towers over the priest who seems to shrink even more at his height.

“What is your name, priest?” 

“I’m not a priest, not yet.” He hunches his shoulders and looks to the side. “I’m still training… My name is Ezra.”

Floki gets a room at the inn. He hasn’t slept on a real bed in what feels like decades. Before he sleeps he goes downstairs and enjoys the food and drink offered. It costs him a bit but money is not much of an issue to him. Not having to eat often and forgoing most luxuries, he’s been able to save up quite a bit of coin. 

When the moon begins to rise and the patrons of the inn’s bar begin to get a bit loud, he heads outside. The noise it too grating on his ears. A figure stands in the moonlight by the edge of a crop of trees.

He knows who it is as he approaches. 

Ezra’s frame is so thin Floki worries a light breeze would blow him over. He makes sure his footsteps are extra loud as he walks up next to the boy.

Wide frightened blue eyes meet Floki’s. In the moonlight his skin is so pale he could be a ghost.

“Hello, Floki.”

Floki looks off into the trees trying to figure out what Ezra was staring at. There is nothing. 

“It’s cold out,” It’s all Floki can think to say, as a light wind buffets around the two of them, lifting stands of Ezra’s long curling hair. “Why aren't you inside?” 

“I don’t like the noise,” Ezra nods his head to the inn. 

Floki glances back to the lights spilling from the large building. “You live in the inn?”

Ezra wraps his thin arms around himself. “There is no room for me in the dorms at the church. We take in all the orphans. I pay to live here.”

Floki looks back to Ezra. It doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story, but he lets it be. 

The two men remain at the edge of the trees. Not speaking, for a long time. Long enough for the drunken bar patrons to stumble out into the night, singing horribly crude songs. They stumble back to their own homes, or perhaps pass out in the street.

Ezra is shivering violently, Floki removes his fur cloak and wraps it around the boy. He pulls it tightly around himself. He looks like a child swaddled in blankets and the hem of the cloak drags on the ground. 

Floki offers him a hand. Ezra stares at it for a moment, then slowly lays his own delicate fingers in Floki’s larger hand. 

Gently the boatman leads the little priest back onto the inn. Once they are inside, standing in the second story hallway, the doors to rooms all along it. Ezra drops Floki’s hand. He begins to take off the cloak and hand it back. 

Floki presses the soft, old furs back. 

“It’s cold.”

Ezra holds the cloak out again. “Yes, so you should take this.” 

Floki takes the cloak, then he drapes it back across Ezra’s shoulders. 

The boy gives Floki a look, but then relents with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Stay warm, little priest,” He lifts his hand to stroke across the boys gaunt cheek, but he pauses. He drops his hand and goes to his room. 

Sleep does not come easy that night. Over and over again he feels the day’s events filter across his mind. Why didn’t he just leave? The question bounces around his skull until the dark finally takes him. 

Dreams plague Floki both in waking and sleeping. This night is no different. He stands on the shore of his home, his little cabin just outside Kattegat. The fjord before him is being tossed about in a violent storm. He watches it, boredly. An arm snakes around his middle, he turns. Athelstan, no Stanislav, Alexandru, Ezra looks up at him. 

“Floki,” His name whispered a million times over from that mouth. 

Hands pull Floki’s head down, his lips meet the soft warmth of the other man’s. 

They are no longer standing on the shore, they are falling backwards into a field of flowers. 

Landing does not hurt one bit, his back gently cradled by the land. He gazes up at Athelstan, who kneels over him, one leg on either side of Floki’s hips. Behind his head is the sun, framing him like the saints in the Christ God’s holy books. 

Athelstan, smiling and more gentle than the flap of butterfly wings, lays himself down on the boat builder, his head resting above Floki’s heart. 

“Please.”

“Please?” Floki’s long fingers card through Athelstand’s long dark hair. 

“I want to remember.”

The hair in Floki’s hand becomes wet with blood, a great axe wound marrying the side of the priests head. 

They are both naked laying in a lake of blood. 

Athelstan lifts his head. He is Ezra. Young face so pale his body covered in bruises and weeping wounds. 

Floki’s hands try to cover some of the deep cuts, there is too much blood. 

“I am a sinner,” Ezra’s eyes stare blankly ahead like Floki isn’t even there. “A sinner,” blood drips from the young man’s mouth. 

“Athelstan!” Floki tries to scream it’s only a whisper. “Athelstan!” He tries again louder. The boy jolts, his eyes focus meeting Floki’s. 

“Stay.” 

“I will stay,” Floki nods.

“Save me.” 

“Save you from what?” The blood is rising, Floki feels like he is choking.

“I am a sinner…”


	7. The Third (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines day! <3
> 
> Just a quick note, Ezra is 18. I call him boy cause hes small and shy, but not a child.
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing support and comments!

Gasping for breath Floki scrambles out of bed. He drinks deeply from a pitcher of water in his room, when he is sure he is not choking on blood he leaves the room and the inn. The sun is high in the sky.

Scanning along the streets he sees no trace of Ezra. He heads into the church. A few kids are in the main room, sweeping and dusting. Floki guesses they are some of the orphans Ezra mentioned. He asks one of them, an older girl, where Ezra is. She nervously points to a doorway at the back of the church. 

Floki awkwardly thanks her, he wonders why everyone associated with this church is so frightened of everything.

Walking through the doorway, Floki finds a hallway. He passes closed wooden doors then finally comes across an open one. It leads into a small room, one side has tables used by scribes and monks making copies of texts, the rest of the room is filled with shelves. Ezra is standing on an old chair, he has a duster in one hand and he uses it to wipe across the books and shelves. 

“Hello,”

Ezra nearly falls off the chair with a squeak. Floki’s long legs have him quickly across the room his arms steadying the boy.

“Floki!” Ezra glares at the Northman. “I nearly fell!”

Floki giggles.

Ezra huffs and bats Floki’s hands off of him.

“What are you doing back here anyways?” Ezra’s blue eyes look the Northman up and down then he goes back to dusting the shelves.

“I was looking for you,” Floki traces his fingers down the spines of some of the books, feeling the old dry leather. “I had a dream about you,”

“Oh?” Ezra sounds surprised, his voice cracking. 

“You and people I used to know…” Floki pulls out one thin book, “It was quite a nice dream at first,”

“At first?” Ezra has stopped dusting.

Floki only makes a hum of confirmation, his eyes transfixed by the now open book in his hands. The pages feel like they might crack under his fingers. “Veni Creator Spiritus, mentes tuorum visita, imple superna gratia, quae tu creasti, pectora.” He raises his eyes from the page to Ezra. 

The boy looks astonished. “You speak Latin?”

Floki shrugs and leans casually against the bookshelves. “For the most part, a very nice munk taught me long ago,”

“That’s! Well, that is quite amazing!” Ezra grins at him. “Most people can’t speak it at all, let alone read! You are a man of many talents,”

Floki smiles cheekily and shuts the old book, placing it back on the shelf. “I can I'llread and speak a lot of languages,”

“What else?” Ezra goes back to dusting.

Floki scratches his beard, it’s getting a bit long. “English, Latin, Norse, Russian, Arabic, and a small amount of Hindi, but only enough to say hello, yes or no, and where’s the closest drink,” Floki chuckles.

“You really are a traveler,” Ezra stretches up on his tiptoes to reach the top of the shelves, as he does so the rickety chair he’s using rocks. He loses his balance and starts falling. Floki reaches out to catch him, he is not fast enough. With a cry, Ezra tumbles to the floor. 

Floki moves the chair out of the way and crouches next to the fallen boy. Ezra landed mostly on his left side, he sits up slowly, hair hanging over his face. His lip trembling. 

Floki starts looking the boy over for any obvious injury. Ezra shies away from him. 

“I’m fine,” He tries to shove Floki away but in doing so Floki notices that the long linen robe Ezra is wearing has ridden up his leg, only his calf is showing, but it's enough. Bruises litter the boys pale skin. 

Floki grasps the limb and pushes the robe up a bit more. Ezra’s knees are scraped, above his knee Floki can see larger bruises and even a few scars.

With surprising strength Ezra pushes Floki away. He pulls his robe down and tucks his legs underneath himself. 

“Don’t!” He turns his face away from the Northman and wraps his arms around himself. 

“Who did this to you?” The question is a low growl. 

Ezra does not answer.

“Who did this to you?” 

Again he does not answer. Floki’s hands grip the boys shoulders and turn Ezra toward himself. 

“No one,” Ezra tries to turn himself away. 

“I’m not an idiot,” Floki leans down to try and catch the boys eyes.

“I told you no one,”

Floki scoffs. “No. Why are you lying to me?”

“I am not!” Ezra raises his face, tears are pooling in his eyes.

“Ezra!” Floki shakes a boy a bit. “Ezra,” he repeats softer. “I just want to help you.”

Ezra wipes his eye with his sleeve. “You don’t even know me.”

Floki sighs and lets go of the boy’s shoulders. His eyes search Ezra’s. “I do…”

The boys eyes flick away. He scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. No one can help me besides God. These are my sins to bear.”

Floki wants to argue, tell Ezra his God will never help. No gods will ever help. He wants to hold the boy tight. He wants to whisk him away from this town, to a place where no one can harm him. He can feel himself cracking inside. Who would harm this kind, scared boy. 

Floki twists his neck and scratches his fingers across his head. He takes in a hissing breath between his teeth. “Fine…” He stands up. “Fine, don’t tell me. But,” He catches the boys eye. “But I will help you.” 

Floki spends the rest of the day wandering the hill sides round the town. He walks through little forests and past deep bogs. Leaves in bright red and gold litter the forest floor and more fall past Floki as he walks. The woods are full of wild game and he decides to set up taps. Rabbit pelts could be sold for a bit of money in the town, not to mention give him something to do. 

When the sun starts to set, rolling clouds of thunder begin to gather on the horizon. Floki smiles as Thor’s hammer strikes light up the sky. 

He gets back to the inn just before heavy sheets of rain began to fall. 

It’s packed inside, people laughing and shouting calling for more food and ale. Floki moves swiftly through the crowds. Other than curious glances, everyone ignore him for the most part, he is still new in this town.

He goes to his dark rented room. He does not light the fire place or the candles. Instead, he watches the lighting arch across the sky. 

A loud boom shakes the building. 

“Thor, are you angry?”

A small knock sounds against his door. It pulls him from the sky. 

Curiously he opens the door. 

Ezra stands in the hall, Floki’s cloak wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Good evening,” The boy looks up at him through dark lashes. “I-I wanted to return this.” He unwraps the cloak from himself and holds it out.

Another loud clap of thunder shakes the building, Ezra folds in on himself at the noise. He straightens up after a second. “Sorry, I am scared of thunder.”

Floki does not take the offered cloak but instead opens the door wider. “Let me show you something.”

Cautiously the boy enters his dark room. His eyes flitting from the small red roll and pack of supplies in the corner, to the bed and finally to Floki.

It’s obvious the boy is nervous so Floki gives him a slight smile as he closes the door and latches it. “Come to the window,” he gestures for Ezra to follow him.

The window is almost too short for Floki so he leans an arm against the wood above it and bends down to look out. Ezra stands next to him. He flinches at another boom of thunder.

“Do you know about the Norse gods?”

Ezra shakes his head. “Bishop Anton says all other gods are false and not to be spoken of.”

Floki snorts. “All gods are real, as long as there is someone who believes in them.”

Outside more lighting dances across the sky but the thunder seems quieter. Perhaps Thor wishes for Floki to be heard, or perhaps the Thunder God does not wish the scare the little Christian. 

“Thor is the god of thunder, and the son of Oden, who is the leader of the gods.” Floki glances to the boy but his eyes are fixed on the light show beyond the glass. “Thor wields a mighty hammer, Mjölnir. It was made by dwarves. Mjölnir will always return to the hand of whoever throws it, and can take down even the largest giant with a single swing. The thunder is the sound of Thor hitting his hammer as he rides a chariot pulled by goats across the sky.”

Ezra pulls his eyes away from the window, he has a small smile on his lips. “That sounds quite ridiculous.”

“Is it any more ridiculous than a man walking on water or dying and coming back to life?”

Ezra thinks for a moment. His mouth opening and closing to say something and then thinking better of it. Finally he settles. “I suppose… it’s not.”

Floki grins.

But Ezra continues. “But I know, despite how ridiculous it seems, Christ is real. I have seen him, I have felt his presence.”

“And I have seen Thor, and Oden, and many other Gods,” Floki shrugs. “Look out into the storm little priest. Can you not see the chariot? The figure of a great man? The sound of the hammer?”

Ezra’s wide eyes turn back to the storm. He gasps as lightning flashes through the sky. 

“Just because you haven't seen something doesn’t mean it hasn’t always been there.”


	8. The Third (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry things have been so slow, it's busy season at my work, in case anyone is curious, I work at a bridal shop, and also make custom clothing and cosplays. Of which I currently have a waiting list of four people!   
> So the story is going to have to take a back seat. Not abandoning but I think it will be one chapter a month till the summer.
> 
> Also super nervous about this chapter its both very angsty and very fluffy and I hope it came out well1
> 
> WARNING: MENTIONS OF RAPE

The next day is sunny and warm, the air crisp with the beginnings of autumn. Floki helps Ezra and the orphans gather apples from the small orchard behind the church. 

Floki can reach the high branches that many of the children cannot. Ezra asks him more about his gods as they work. After the storm the night before the boy seems to really open up, he wants to learn. Floki is glad to see him smiling and asking questions. 

When the sun reaches the highest point in the sky Floki takes a break, sitting with his back against one of the trees as Ezra stands on a stool picking the last of the apples. Ezra tosses one of the fruits down to him. Floki looks it over, before taking a bite. It is sweet.

“The gods of Asgard have an apple orchard,” Floki comments as he chews. 

“Really? Why?” Ezra glances at the Northman but continues with his work.

“It is not a normal apple orchard. The fruit that grows there is golden. The branches bend down with their weight all year around. Only the goddess Idunn can pick them. When one eats them they are granted immortality, youth and strength. That is how the Gods stay alive forever.”

“Isn’t it interesting that our stories and yours both include apples?” Ezra muses as he steps down from the stool his arms filled with fruit. He goes to drop them into a basket filled with more picked earlier. 

Floki gets up and helps him, tossing his half eaten fruit away. “It is interesting, but your apple was seen as a bad thing, ours as good.”

“It seems to me…” Ezra looks up after the last of the apples are in the basket, “that many things my religion sees as bad, yours sees as good, or at the very least neutral.”

Floki giggles. “Yes, that’s part of why you Saxons and us Northmen never got along.”

“We get along,” Ezra’s sea blue eyes look shyly up. His eyes are so deep, his eye lashes so dark.

Floki opens his mouth to say something. He’s not even sure what, when a voice pulls both of their attention away. 

“Boy!” A man, dressed in black robes with a rope belt is approaching them. He is grey and balding, his face clean shaven. His skin is wrinkled and pock marked. He strides toward them with irritated steps.

“Bishop Anton,” Ezra’s face has suddenly lost all brightness. His eyes lowered to the ground. 

Floki looks the man up and down, critically. He has never seen him before, but from the few times Ezra has mentioned him Floki is already of the opinion that he is not a good man. The boat builder is a bit surprised at the lack of grandeur this man is dressed in. He has only ever met two bishops, the first, King Eckmen’s bishop, Floki had watched Hvitserk kill, but he usually had worn fancy robes and a golden cross. The second, Heahmund, Ivar’s brief pet, had only worn armor.

This new Bishop scowls at Floki and then at Ezra. 

“Who is this man?”

“He is a traveler, your grace,” Ezra keeps his head bowed. 

Bishop Anton looks to Floki. His eyes are hard. “We do not trust travelers in this town. I am Bishop Anton, the leader and protector in this faithful town.” 

Floki smirks down at the man. “I am Floki, the wanderer.”

The bishop seems to expect Floki to do more than that. Does he expect the boat builder to kiss his feet?

“Tell me, Floki,” the holy man glares. “Are you a God fearing man?”

Floki cannot stop the high laugh that bursts from his mouth. He looks to Ezra to share his amusement with the boy, but his eyes are fixed firmly on the ground, his mouth set in a frown. Floki’s laughs die away and he looks back to the old Bishop. “No.”

“As I suspected. Then I tell you Heathen,” he spits the last word out, “do not speak to any of these children again, and least of all this boy.”

“Come!” The Bishop whips around and stomps back to the church, Ezra is quick to grab the heavy basket of apples. 

Floki tries to catch his eyes but the boy refuses to look at him as he and the children hurry after the old man. 

Floki does not see Ezra for the rest of the day. 

At night he lays on the bed in his room staring up at the ceiling. When he had knocked on the door to Ezra’s room earlier there had been no reply. 

He feels worry like a great vice squeezing his heart. 

He hears feet coming up the stairs, steady and quiet. They pause outside his door. Floki waits… and waits… there is no knock, but neither do the footsteps move away. 

He decides then. 

Floki, silent as a cat, stands grabbing, a small knife from under his pillow, he holds it behind his back as he unlatches the door and peers out.

The knife was unnecessary.

Ezra stands outside the door, his hand hovering in the air. His face is obscured a dark hood. When he lifts his face to Floki lets out a gasp. The boys right eye is swollen and red, his lip is cut and a dark bruise is forming across his jaw. 

Floki snatches the boy and pulls him quickly into the room. He pushes Ezra down to sit on the bed. The boy does so silently. Once he is sitting he lifts his legs up onto the bed and wraps his arms tightly around them. Floki wets some cloth and gently lifts the boys head. He starts cleaning the cut lip, it is no longer bleeding but dried flakes of blood lead in a trail down Ezra’s chin. 

As Floki works, his nimble fingers being as gentle as possible, Ezra’s wide eyes begin to tear up. 

Floki glances at them and then quickly away. “Who did this to you?” He whispers.

“I deserved it,” Ezra blinks and two tears roll down his face. “I deserve more…”

“What?” Floki stops his gentle cleaning and stares at the boy in confusion.

“These wounds are penance against my sins.” The boy pulls his face out of the Boat Builders grip. “And here I am indulging in sin again.”

Perplexed, Floki frowns. “What is happening now that could be considered wrong?”

Ezra’s expression is baffled. “All of this!” He throws his arms out. “Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. For what partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness? What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what portion does a believer share with an unbeliever? What agreement has the temple of God with idols? For we are the temple of the living God; as God said, “I will make my dwelling among them and walk among them, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. Therefore go out from their midst, and be separate from them.”

“Don’t quote your silly books at me,” Floki scowls. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” Ezra makes to stand up but Floki holds him down with two strong hands on his shoulders.

“No,” Floki catches Ezra’s eyes. “You will not leave until you tell me who did this to you.”

The boy looks away. “If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, do not receive him into your house or give him any greeting.”

The Northman lets out a frustrated growl, Ezra flinches at the sound. 

“If you think that knowing me is a sin, then I will tell you, it’s too late now.”

Ezra chokes on a little sob. “I wish I had never spoken to you, you are always so kind. It has to be a trick.”

“I assure you it is not,” Floki sighs. “If it’s a reassurance, I have known many Christians in my life, I don’t think they went to Hell just because they knew me.”

“You don’t believe in Hell.”

Floki grins. 

Ezra frowns at him.

Floki’s hands run down Ezra’s thin arms, and he takes the boys hands in his own. “Tell me who did this to you.”

Ezra is silent, his teeth biting his lips. “It’s what I deserve.”

“No one deserves this.”

Quiet. 

“It was Bishop Anton.”

Floki stares. It’s what he expected the boy to say, but that does not make it any better.

“You won’t, you won’t try to hurt him as revenge?”

“I want to,” Floki squeezes the boys hands.

“Don’t. Really, please, this is my punishment, my sins. I deserve worse,” Ezra pulls his hands way and wraps his arms back around his legs.

Floki shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face. “Knowing me can’t be punishable by this.”

“No, no,” Ezra seems to become even smaller. “I am guilty of much worse.”

“What?” Floki is so confused, everything he has seen about Ezra is kind, gentle and loving. A true symbol of what a Christian should be. 

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

Floki waits. 

“But I can see it in you when you are around me.”

He doesn’t understand. His eyes flicker across the boys still form, jumping for a clue as to what he could mean.

“I see it in other men. When they look at me, when they get to close. Bishop Anton says my soul will always be doomed because of it. I bring it into even him, a high holy man of the church,” Ezra tilts his head down, he looks like a little ball on top of the furs.

The word is so quiet Floki can barely even hear.

“Lust.”

Floki stares at the boy, he is perfectly still for a moment, then his hands start to twitch.

“I don’t...” Floki doesn’t even really like using the word “...lust after you.”

Ezra’s head twitches up. “You do! I can see it! It’s okay, it’s not your fault it’s mine!”

Floki stands up and starts pacing, his fingers running across his head. 

“You are upset,” Ezra’s voice is small.

Floki wants to reply sarcastically. Yes, yes he is upset but not for the reasons Ezra thinks. He doesn't lust after him like some woman from a brothel. That’s such a wrong word for what he feels.

“You can…” The boy pauses and takes a deep breath. “You can take it out on me if you would like.”

Floki stops and stares at the Erza, his mouth hanging open. 

Ezra looks up at him through dark eyelashes. 

“Oden gi meg styrke,” Floki resumes his pacing.

“It’s okay, that’s how Bishop Anton deals with it.”

Floki stops again, this time not looking at the boy. His long frame deflates, his heart filling with such sorrow. Of course the beatings were just the beginning.

“If, if you fuck me then you can get it out, at least for a little bit… and you can take your anger out on me too, I’m sure you are disgusted by those feelings.”

Floki tilts his head toward the ceiling.

“Please,” Ezra’s voice wavers.

“No,” Floki does not move.

“Please! I cannot stand that I make you feel such sins!”

Floki’s hands open and close. “They aren’t sins to me.”

“But surely they must be bad! Please, you are so kind to me, it is only right you punish me for doing such wrongs against you,” Floki can hear the tears in Ezra’s voice.

“No!” Floki doesn’t mean to shout. “No,” he repeats, quieter.

The Norseman is taken by surprise when Ezra, with surprising strength, yanks him to the bed. Floki’s tall form falls diagonally, his head off one end of the bed and his legs off the other. He turns quickly from where he lands on his side, to his back, making to get up, but Ezra is quickly on top of him.

Floki stops all movement, hazel eyes darting across Ezra’s tear streaked face. The boy looks like a wreck. The cut on his lip is bleeding again and his eye is even more swollen from crying.

With quick hands Ezra reaches for Floki’s trousers and starts to undo the laces.

Floki grabs his hands before he can completely get them undone, his tight grip causes Ezra to whimper in pain. He loosens his but does not let go. Gently he pulls both of Ezra’s arms down by his sides. 

The boy lets out a sob and falls forward onto Floki. His small form shakes with each breath and hot tears drip onto Floki’s chest. Slowly, one finger at a time, he lets go of the boys wrists. 

His long arms reach up and circle around Ezra holding his small body close. Soothingly, he runs one hand through Ezra’s long dark hair. 

Nether knows how long they lay like that, but it’s long enough for Floki’s neck to start to hurt. Ezra eventually calms, tears still run down his face but he is no longer sobbing. 

“I… I just want to help you,” his voice is a cracking mess. 

“That is not helping…” Floki stills his hand in Ezra’s hair.

“But… that’s the only way I know to fix these sins.”

“First, there is nothing wrong with wanting to have sex with someone,” Ezra lifts his head up to retort but Floki holds a finger over the boys mouth. “Second, raping you is the last thing I ever want.”

Ezra scrunches up his eyebrows.

“I don’t want to harm you.”

Ezra takes Floki’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his mouth. “Why not? Surly you are angry about how I make you feel.”   
Floki cannot help but give a baffled smile. “Nothing I feel about you is bad, it doesn’t make me angry,” Only angry at myself, he doesn’t add. Floki gently pushes Ezra off of him and moves so he is laying properly on the bed. He stretches his back and rolls his neck with a few pops. 

“I don’t understand. Lust is bad, the bible says so! God says so! Especially between two men.” Ezra folds his arms across his chest. “And you lust after me, so you must hate me for making you feel that way.”

“Lust is perfectly fine, but I don’t lust after you,” Floki reaches his arms up and twists his wrists around. “Well I do,” he smiles.   
Ezra gave him a disapproving look. 

He drops his arms heavily. His fingers danced across the fur below him. “But that is because… I love you.” He glances at the boy. 

Ezra might as well be made of stone. His eyes as wide as the moon. “What?”

“You heard me,” Floki looks away.

“No, no!” Ezra drops his crossed arms and leans forward. “I must have heard wrong.”

Floki glances back at him through the side of his eyes. 

“Say it again.”

He turns to face Ezra. “I love you.”

Ezra’s deep blue eyes blink a few times. “You are wrong.”

“I am not,” Floki smiles. “Trust me I’ve had a long time to think about it.”

“It’s been three days.”

“It’s been much longer for me,” Floki waves his hand.

Ezra looks away his eyes unfocused. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Floki sighs. “But it is true. I love you.”

The boy shakes his head. 

Floki sits up and tilits Ezra’s pale face toward him, his fingers caress the uninjured parts of his skin. Ezra’s blue eyes meet Floki’s own. He almost cannot comprehend the lost look in them. 

“Ezra, I love you.”

The boy takes an unsteady breath, a few more tears leak out of his eyes. Floki brushes them away. 

Delicately Floki lays back down, pulling Ezra with him. “I will never harm you,” His eyes jump back and forth between Ezra’s. “If I were to sleep with you it would be because you want it. It would be to show you my love. Not to cause harm or pain or... or make up for some sin,” Floki scrunches his nose at the last word. 

Ezra lays there still.

Floki gently runs his fingers across his face again. 

Nervously, as if he isn’t allowed to, Ezra reaches out one hand to Floki’s face. His fingers brush along one of his cheeks and through his beard. Looking into Floki’s eyes, like he needs permission, he gently moves his fingers across Floki’s lips. He rests them there for a moment. Floki kisses his fingers and Ezra lets out a surprised laugh. Floki giggles.

He knows Ezra isn’t fixed. His love confession will hardly undo years of abuse. But maybe it is a start. 

Ezra drops his hand and Floki moves to pull the boy closer. He lets himself be pulled into Floki’s warmth. Ezra’s head fits so well under his chin. Everything feels so right. It’s been hundreds of years since he last held him, but the world suddenly feels as if it should always be this way. Ezra lets out a shaky breath. 

Floki kisses the top of his head and whispers. “Sleep.”

Ezra’s own arm snakes across Floki’s waist. He breathes out warm against the Norsemen’s collar bone.

Floki feels the boy slowly drift off, his breath slowing. Floki keeps his eyes open, his left pointer finger traces runes across the boys back. Runes of protection, and of strength. His mind drifts off, full of blood, and screams. The image of Bishop Anton blood-eagled across the altar of his own church.


	9. The Third (Part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is at home and staying safe!   
> My job finally closed so now I'll have time to write more! Hopefully I'll get this whole story done!   
> Anyways enjoy this update and THANK YOU all for your amazing comments! They give me LIFE!

The days pass slowly. The leaves turn from brilliant gold and orange to dull brown and the branches become bare.

Floki and Ezra do not speak during the day, they do not risk Bishop Anton knowing more of their association. Floki does odd jobs to make a few coins, hunting, helping farms, anything he can do to keep busy. Many of the towns folk distrust him. Ezra informs Floki that the Bishops sermons have been full of calls to fear outsiders. 

As long as he keeps his head down and pays for his room in a timely manner, the people let him be.

The nights are for Floki and Ezra. Long after the sun is set and the town sleeping, Ezra will sneak into Floki’s room. They will whisper to each other, stories, dreams, hopes. They don’t do anything close to intimate. 

Sometimes Ezra will take Floki’s hands in his as he talks about something silly one of the children did that day. Floki will hold him when he falls asleep, his larger body protecting the boy from the horrors outside. Floki, always sends him back to his room before the sun rises. Usually with a kiss on Ezra’s forehead.

Ezra’s wounds heal, and Floki plans. 

There are many ways he could exact revenge upon the Bishop. His favorite to imagine is blood eagling the man, he would love to hear his screams. It is a long painful death. He muses on crucifixion for a while. The symbolism would be perfect. He knows he wants it to be slow, and painful. But he also does not want to have the town trace the murder back to him. Poison… poison would be good. A slow acting one. 

Ezra informs Floki on one of their late nights, as they both sit cross legged on the floor, that the bishop is gluttonous. He loves his drink and food. Often the man is too drunk to give sermons on Sunday and Ezra fills in. It would be so easy to slip something in. Especially because Ezra usually helps make the food for both the children and the Bishop.

Floki’s plan begins to form, but he must wait, wait until spring comes and the plants of the earth begin to grow again. 

On the day of the first snow the whole town is buried in the white fakes. Floki watches from the first floor of the inn as the snow continues through the morning. No one seems to be venturing outside. 

The innkeeper jokes about keeping his patrons captive while he serves them all warm food and bread. 

Floki eats then retreats to his room, he passes Ezra on the stairs. They don’t say anything but the boy gives him a cheerful smile and runs a hand down Floki’s arm as they pass.

It’s several hours later when Floki is awakened from his half asleep nap by a rapping on his room door. 

He gets up slowly, stretching, then goes to open the door.

Ezra is standing in the hall, he has a light wool cloak wrapped around him, melting snow in his hair, his tunic and pants are soaked. 

Floki pulls him into the room. 

“Why did you go outside?!” He pushes the shivering boy near the fireplace and throws a few more logs onto the burning embers. 

“I had to go to the church.” Ezra holds his hands out to the flames.

Floki scoffs. “You’ll catch your death doing stupid things like that,” He leaves the fire and rumbages around the room, he finds one of his few extra tunics. He tosses it at Ezra. “Start undressing.” 

The wool tunic lands on the boys head, he pulls it off and looks confused from it to Floki. “I…? What?”

“You need to take off your wet cloths or you will just stay cold,” Floki gestures vaguely. 

Ezra holds the tunic to his chest, clutched in both hands. His face pink. “Can you… Can you not look?”

“Oh!” Floki laughs and slaps one of his hands over his eyes, then turns around for good measure. “No peeking, I promise.”

He hears Ezra’s soft laugh and the ruffling of clothing. 

“Alright done.”

Floki peeks over his shoulder. Ezra’s wet clothing is neatly hung over the end of the bed, he stands with his back to the fire. Floki’s clothing is much to big. The thick, dark green, fabric hangs nearly to Ezra’s knees, the sleeves hang far over his hands, and the collar might slip off his shoulder at any moment. Floki blinks at him then laughs.

“Hey!” Ezra crosses his arms, “Don’t laugh at me! It’s not my fault your clothing is gigantic!”

“No!” Floki wakes his hands in a “no no” fashion. “It’s cute!”

Ezra pouts. Floki laughs again. 

Still chuckling he grabs his heavy fur cloak and wraps it around the boys shoulders. Ezra pulls it close and rubs his face against the soft pelts.

He looks up, and smiles, shyly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Floki tilts his head, smiling. “I’m just happy.”

Ezra smiles back. “I am too,” He lifts one hand and cups Floki’s cheek. His hand is cold, but the Norseman doesn’t mind. “You know,” Ezra looks away, “sharing a bed helps warm someone up.”

Floki stills. 

“I don’t mean sex!” Ezra looks back up, his cheeks bright red. “I just mean you and me under the blankets!”

“In that case!” Floki scoops Ezra up by wrapping his arms around the boys waist and lifting. 

Ezra squeaks then laughs as Floki gently tosses him onto the bed. Ezra lifts the fur blankets and the two of them are quickly surrounded by warmth, their limbs tangled. Ezra laughs and pushes Floki’s face away when the Norseman starts peppering his face in kisses.

Floki laughs and places one last kiss on the boys forehead.

They lay quietly for a moment, Floki’s hands tracing patterns across Ezra’s back. 

“I… I was wondering…” Ezra’s hands tighten where they are grasped to the front of Floki’s tunic. “Just, well we kiss a lot, but not on the mouth… I guess that’s usually something for couples, man and wife. But you say you love me, and I just wonder if you do love me why not kiss me?” 

Floki glances down at Ezra, their eyes meet for a moment and he looks swiftly away again. “I just can’t…” He pulls Ezra a little closer. Before his eyes he watches the change in Stanislav after they had kissed. Athelstan. Floki had realized it must have been that kiss which unlocked the memories. Ezra is so sweet, and already troubled enough. If he remembers then Floki will lose him. “It’s just better for both of us if I don’t.”

“Is it because you are bad at it?” Ezra chuckles.

Floki gives him a look. “No! Or at least I don’t think so… not like I can kiss myself to see,” He giggles. 

Ezra laughs quietly. 

They stay curled up in bed for hours, they eat dried fruits, meats, and mushrooms from Floki’s supplies. The mushrooms make Floki see stars in Ezra’s dark hair, and the ocean in his eyes. 

They laugh and smile. Ezra shyly convinces Floki to remove his shirt. Only to “see his tattoos,” they both know it’s so they can touch more skin. Shy fingers dance across each others bodies. Slow, gentle. The lines of the tattoos dance across their vision.

The snow continues to fall outside. 

Ezra falls asleep, his back pressed up against Floki’s chest, the Norseman’s arms wrapped around his fragile frame.

It was a good day.

The winter is long and cold, but the town gets through, spring comes again. One of the mornings, as the grass begins to green and the air warm Floki knows it is time to start. He paints on his kohl lines darker than usual and marks a rune of luck on his forehead. 

He leaves the inn with nothing but a knife, ax, and a few pouches tied to his belt. He won't be gone long. 

Ezra sees him leaving, headed toward the forest. He catches the Norsemans sleeve. 

“Where are you going?” He looks Floki up and down. “And why the war paint?”

“I’m going to war.” He pulls his arm away. “Don’t worry little priest I’ll be back by sunset.” He reaches out to run a hand through Ezra’s hair but thinks better of it and pulls away. 

With long strides he makes his way into the trees. 

He is hunting. Not for animals, for mushrooms. So long ago he had tricked King Harald by pretending to kill Torstein with mushrooms. He knows what plants can and cannot kill. 

Bishop Anton likes food. It’s an easy slip of the hand to hide a few poisonous mushrooms in a meal. There is one kind Floki has seen before. It is called a webcap, the small fungus are easily mistaken for edible ones. But not only do they kill a man with only a few bites, the death takes days or even weeks. It is painful and appears as if the person died of an illness rather than poison.

Floki searches and searches, he finds a few and gathers them. He wonders about testing them to make sure they are the right variety, he wouldn’t die. But he doesn’t have much interest in being extremely ill for a few days. If it’s the wrong type he will just find more.

He returns before the sunset, but he does not see Ezra until long into the night. 

Floki is sitting on his bed, his eyes glazed as he stares at the walls of his little room. Dark visions of anguish and pain flit across his mind. Is it the pain the Bishop will endure? That’s not quite it… He’s missing something… Dark clouds.

He’s pulled away when the heavy wooden door opens. 

Ezra does not knock anymore. His pale face smiles as he gently shuts the door behind him and latches it. 

On silent bare feet he slips on to the bed and settles in Floki’s lap facing toward him. The boys hands gently grasp his face. His thumbs run across the lines of kohl. “You seem troubled.”

Floki’s pupils dart away from Ezra’s searching look. “I am always troubled, always haunted.”

Ezra frowns. 

Floki looks back. “I have something for you,” He pushes Ezra off his lap and retrieves one of the pouches full of deadly fungus. He comes back to the bed and holds the bag out. “Do not eat them.”

Confused, Ezra takes the leather pouch, he pulls it open and looks at the contestants. “If I am not eating them, then what are they for?”

“They are for the Bishop,” Floki’s nose crinkles. “You need to feed those to him.”

“I…” Ezra looks back and forth, from Floki, to the mushrooms. “No!” He holds them back out to the Norseman. “I cannot poison him… Kill him!”

Floki pushes the bag back to Ezra. “You have to.”

Ezra drops the pouch. “No! Killing is a sin! It - it’s horrible!” 

Floki bends down and picks up the small bag, he drops it back down in Ezra’s lap. “You want to be rid of him don’t you?”

“I… I, yes…” Tears start to gather in the boys eyes. 

“Then this is the only way.”

Ezra shakes his head violently. “No! There has to be something else…”

“I could kill him. I would take an ax to his head now and send him straight to Hel, but then I would have to leave,” Floki slowly moves to sit next to Ezra. 

“You cannot go!” The boy grabs onto Floki’s arm, his thin hands holding tight. “I would not be able to live without you!” 

Floki smiles at Ezra. He removes the boys hands from his arm and instead holds them both in his. “This is the best way to be free of him. The only way.”

“I-I,” Ezra sighs. “Even if it is the only way. I cannot do it, I am not brave enough.”

“But you are!” Floki squeezes his hands. The Norseman’s expression is insistent. “You are the bravest person I have ever known.”


	10. The Third (Part 5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I will admit I haven't been working on this story, instead ive been sewing face masks, hundreds and hundreds of face masks!
> 
> I hope you are all staying safe and healthy!
> 
> REMINDER: Ezra is 18 
> 
> TW: Pandemic (figured I should include this cause of whats happening right now)

Ezra promises to put the deadly plants into the Bishops food sometime that week. He does not say when, he must work up the courage. 

They talk about death, killing. Hel and Hell and even the idea that there might be nothing at all. Ezra seems to be convinced he is going to Hell. He always has. Floki is not sure how to convey knowing that he won’t. 

Maybe Ezra won’t be reborn again, maybe that’s the point, Floki has to help the soul he harmed… He isn’t sure. Regardless, he wants to help, he wants Ezra safe. Not just to make up for his mistakes, maybe centuries ago after he had first realized his immortality, that would be the only reason why. But not now. Now it is because he loves Ezra, or Athelstan, whoever he is or may be. 

He wishes he had given the priest a chance all that time ago. He had hated Athelstan so blindly. So unwilling to see anything besides an affront to the Gods. He had admired the man a bit for adapting to their way of life, for learning to fight, joining their traditions. But so much more of him was consumed by jealousy. How easily this forgener slipped into the lives of his friends, fit into their home. Wowed people with his stories and smarts. Especially Ragnar.   
Ragnar had been Floki’s only real friend, he accepted him for all his eccentricities, encouraged his dreams. All his life he was marked out from everyone else. Ragnar didn’t care, treated him as equil, not different.

Then this priest came along with his God and kind nature and suddenly Floki was no longer Ragnar’s must trusted friend.   
Even Helga had liked the priest. He probably should have listened to her when she told him Athelstan was a good man. She was always so much wiser than him. 

If he had listened, would he be buried in the ground with all his friends? Would he be feasting in Valhalla with the Gods? Why wonder? The Norns knew his fate before he was even born.

Ezra avoids Floki for most of the week. He still smiles when he catches the Northmen’s eye, brushes just a bit too close to him in the street. 

Floki knows he is trying to be distant, the boy is probably paranoid, convinced that people know what he is going to do, what Floki convinced him to do. 

The sun is setting and Floki is sitting in the inn enjoying some soup and bread when Ezra comes flying through the door. His pale face is impossibly white. His eyes dart around the room, landing on Floki. He holds the Norsemen’s eyes for just a moment, then sprints upstairs. 

Floki takes his time, finishes his food, then calmly returns to his room. 

Ezra is inside, sitting on the bed. He springs up when Floki steps through the door.

“What took you so long?” 

“I, unlike you,” Floki calmly starts removing his weapons and cloak, “know how to not act suspicious.” He gives Ezra a wolfish grin. With one foot placed directly in front of the other, he stalks toward the boy. “Is it done?”

“Y-yes,” Ezra bends a bit backwards to look up at Floki’s face.

The boat builder girns, then giggles, then laughs. “Good job,” He touches the side of Ezra’s face. “I am proud of you.”

“You are sure no one will know?”

“Yes,” Floki smirks. “I have seen these work before. People will think he has a sickness. It can take weeks, he will die.”

“I just…” Ezra pauses and bites his lip. “I don’t know how to feel…”

“Free, you should feel free.”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “Perhaps I will once it is all over. When he is really gone.” Ezra’s eyes are downcast. “I am doomed to Hell now…”

“No,” Floki shakes his head. “Your God cannot damn you for removing a man who would hurt you so.”

“Even if I deserve that hurt.”

Floki lets out a puff of air through his nose. He pulls Ezra to him and holds the smaller man in a tight embrace. “I don’t know how I can convince you that you deserve none of this.” 

“But, isn’t murder just as bad as rape, worse actully.”

Floki shrugs. “I do not think so. Your towns law puts people to death for much smaller things, theavery, adultery…”

“Yes, but those go through the law, through judgement.”

“What worker of the law would take your complaints seriously? They would kill you instead, probably. Sometimes we must take these things into our own hands.” 

Ezra buries his face into Floki’s chest. “I am sure the Gates of Heaven are closed to me.”

“Perhaps. But then you get to go to Hell, and be a Demon, always sounded more fun to me then your perfect little cloud kingdom with lutes and everything being all nice all the time.” Floki makes a face.

Ezra lifts his head and lets out a very small laugh. “Of course you would think that.”

“If your afterlife is real then we will go to Hell together.” A lie but a funny one.

“You would fit right in, I'm sure. In fact, sometimes, when you first appeared, I thought you might be a demon sent here on earth to cause trouble.” 

Floki giggles. “Many times people have accused me of being Loki in disguise.”

Ezra chuckles “I would believe that!” His smile is glowing. 

Floki wants to lift Ezra up and kiss him, he wants to never stop kissing him. He wants to taste the warmth of his smile. Instead he just stares reverently down at the boy in his arms and blurts out. “I love you.”

Ezra’s smile stays, his hands reach up and cup Floki’s cheeks. The Norseman’s eyelids flutter shut.

“I want you to show me.”

Floki’s eyes spring back open. “What?” 

Ezra bites his lip and glances coyly up at the Norseman. “I-I want you to show me your love.”

His hazel eyes dart, befuddled, across Ezra’s face. “You are sure?”

The boy nods. “Yes. Yes. Soon he will be dead… He won't be able to touch me ever again and I want to forget he ever did in the first place.” Ezra steps out of Floki’s arms and takes his hand. He leads the Norseman to the bed. Shyly he lays down, Floki follows him down, he hovers over Ezra, straining to touch, but he holds back. 

It’s Ezra who pulls Floki down against him, the taller man’s whole body covering his. He kisses Floki on the forehead. “Please,” He whispers. “Show me what love is.”  
Floki wants to set upon Ezra like a starving man. He wants all of him. But he doesn’t, he holds back. He is gentle, more gentle than he has been with anything in his long life. 

He caresses, kisses, even worships Ezra. 

It’s not perfect, Ezra is nervous, he shakes and cries. Floki only holds him tight, wipes his tears away and whispers words of devotion.

The Bishop soon takes sick. The best healers are called from around the area, nothing helps. It starts with aches and pains, then a fever. Ezra prays over the Bishop’s bed every day. 

Seven days after he had first been fed the poisonous mushrooms Floki follows Ezra into the Bishop’s room. The disgusting old man lays sweating on his bed. His bloodshot eyes dart to Ezra and Floki as they enter the room. He starts spitting expletives at the Northman, threats and lines from the bible. 

Floki giggles as he saunters to the side of the bed. “Look at you, disgusting old man. Dieing and not your all your fancy healers or even your Christ God can save you.”

“Heathen!” He hisses. “Devil disguised as a man.”

Floki laughs. 

Ezra shoots him a look from across the bed, then he kneels down and starts reciting prayers. 

Floki makes a face and starts poking around the Bishop's room. “Why do you bother praying for him?”

“Even his soul can be saved. And if his soul can go to heaven then so can mine.” Ezra goes back to praying.

Floki picks up a golden cross necklace. He looks it over for a moment. He wants to take it, a momento. When the bishop sees him holding it his string of expletives begins again with renewed vigor. 

Floki pockets the necklace. 

Ezra stops his praying to say. “Put that back.”

“He will be dead by tomorrow at the latest,” He shrugs. “No one will miss it.” 

Ezra lets out a sigh, then stands. The Bishop’s head turns to him, he starts yelling at Ezra about his sins. Words and accusations pulled from the depths of his fevered mind. 

“Sinner, Sodomite, consorting with the devil! Disgusting boy! Whore! The gates of heaven will never take you! You will burn in hell with all the devils!”

Ezra flinches and wraps his thin arms around himself.

Floki steps around the bed to Ezra, he wraps his arms around the boy from behind, he rests his chin on Ezra’s head. 

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!” The Bishop rages. 

If Floki had any pity for the man he would feel it now, as the old man raves in his deathbed. All he feels is a sense of elation, this is a just death, a deserved murder. He kisses the top of Ezra’s head. “Let’s go, he deserves none of your kindness.”

Ezra nods and lets Floki lead him out of the room. 

That night Bishop Anton dies. One of the healers brings Ezra the news as he sits in one of the church pews, Floki stands in one of the alcoves, it’s filled with candles. He runs his fingers slowly through the flames. It hurts just a bit when he lingers too long.

Ezra comes to him and tells him the news. 

“What happens now?” Floki stops messing with the flames.

“We will bury him in the morning, behind the church. A new Bishop will have to be appointed. Probably by the king. Maybe it will be me…” Ezra picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I am more than ready to become a full fledged priest, the people here like me. So perhaps it will be me.” A small smile flits across his features. “I am sure there are other more suited candidates, but there is a chance.”

“I think you would be quite good at it,” Floki nods.

“Thanks,” Ezra smiles a bit, then frowns. “I’m just… frightened I guess.”

“By?” 

“Everything…” Ezra’s face tightens.

Floki takes Ezra by the shoulders, he gently squeezes. “It will pass.”

“Will it?”

“Yes,” Floki pulls Ezra to his chest. “Everything passes.”

“Will you stay?”

“I will stay as long as you wish for me to be at your side.”

Ezra’s shaking hands rise up and clutch at Floki’s tunic. “I’ll always want you by my side. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Ezra is named as the new Bishop, much to the delight of the townsfolk.

Floki moves from the inn to a small cabin just outside the town. He hunts and carves, trading with townsfolk at the market. Slowly their mistrust of him fades, especially as they see the friendship between him and Ezra. The church flourishes under Ezra’s leadership. His sermons are about kindness and acceptance, love and tolerance.

Floki loves to see him as he greets the people, his smile unhaunted by fear. He is still often scared, his dreams full of nightmares, Floki helps him through the worst of it. They cannot spend every night together but many nights one will come to the other. Ezra turns the room full of books into his bedroom instead of sleeping in the old Bishop’s room. He locks the door to it and loses the key. 

Floki carves Ezra so many little things the priest starts to run out of places to put them. He cherishes each one and the Nothman delights in the smile they always bring to Ezra’s face. 

Nearly three years pass this way. 

Floki’s still has visions, the same creeping darkness. He tells Ezra. It is hard to prepare for something coming when you don’t even know what it is. 

Floki’s dreams start to be filled with storms, black rain falls from the sky, when he looks up the clouds are made of rats. Dark emaciated shadows lurk beyond in the dark. He knows then.

Sickness is coming. 

He begs Ezra to come away with him the morning after he realized what is going to happen. He pleads. But the priest will not leave.

“Where would we go?” Ezra is sitting on the edge of Floki’s bed while the Northman paces the short length of his cabin.

“Anywhere! Just away, people are going to die. Hundreds, thousands! You will die!’

“I won’t abandon my people in fear!” Ezra’s fists clench.

Floki growls, and scrapes his fingers over his head, through his hair. “If you stay you will die!”

“How do you know?”

“I just do!” Floki shouts. 

Ezra flinches, Floki immediately stops his pacing and kneels in front of Ezra. He takes Ezra’s fists into his hands and gently strokes his thumbs across them. “Please. I can’t lose you.” He places a fierce kiss on Ezra’s left knuckles. “I can’t lose you again.” He whispers. 

Ezra hears him. “What do you mean?”

“I-I,” Floki keeps his head bowed. “I’ve lost everyone. Everyone I have ever known. Things are so good now. I wish… I wish the Gods would end this suffering.”

Ezra pulls his hands out of Floki’s and uses them to pull Floki’s head up. Floki will not meet his eyes as his tears begin to spill. Tenderly Ezra strokes Floki’s cheeks, smearing his lines of kohl. “Perhaps I will make it through this, have some faith. Perhaps we both will.”

Floki lets out a long shuddering breath. There is no point in arguing. Everything in his very being tells him that Ezra will not make it, but he will live on, as he always does. 

The plague comes quickly. First they hear of the other towns, the horror of bodies lying in the street, whole families dead in just a few days. 

It comes first to the people of the inn. The innkeeper the first to die. Black boils covering his flesh, moans falling from his lips. He barely looks human when he passes. Ezra converts the church into a place for the sick. The main room fills with cots and the sound of dying. It stinks of incense and death. There are too many for the church to hold. Floki watches people collapse in the street. 

Ezra tries to help everyone, offering prayers, drinks and food. It is hopeless. It is not long before he too is sick, Floki tends to him, going days without rest. 

Only Floki, the older orphan girl, a few townspeople and a some healers who travel from town to town with the sickness remain healthy.

Floki knows it is hopeless but he tries to help anyways. He tries everything, herbs, prayers to the Gods, magic carvings, any new suggestion the few healers can come up with. 

Nothing helps. Ezra growls weaker and weaker. His pale, gaunt face becomes impossibly more grey. Dark black boils cover his already scarred skin. 

Floki sits beside Ezra’s bed, his eyes closed. He is not praying. He’s not doing anything, just listening to the rattling breath of Ezra. A few coughs and a clammy hand landing on his knee get his attention. He moves immediately from the chair and kneels besides Ezra’s bed. 

The priests blue eyes flutter open just a bit. They slowly tilt to Floki. He opens his chapped lips to speak but coughs instead. The violent sound shakes his whole body. Floki offers him a cup, and lifts his head to help him drink, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. Ezra takes a few tentative sips then pulls his head away. 

“Floki,” It’s just a whisper. “I’m… so sorry…” 

“Shhhh,” Floki shushes him. 

Ezra continues. “I should have… left… with you.”

Floki closes his eyes tight and takes Ezra’s hand.

“Floki... Floki,” Ezra’s rasping voice is insistent.

Floki reopens his eyes to find Ezra’s boring into his own. 

Even surrounded by his hollow dark sockets their color is so beautiful. 

“Floki. I want you to kiss me.” 

“What?” Floki blinks.

“I’m… I’m going to die… I don’t want to die without…” He starts coughing again. 

Floki takes a shuddering breath and looks away. “I… I can’t.”

“Please?”

He glances back to Ezra. “I can’t.”

“I… I think I’ll go to hell… at least let me go having kissed the man I love before I get there.”

Floki feels his whole face crumple. He cannot deny Ezra’s dying wish. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

He holds Ezra’s face in his hands, his skin it feels so thin, like the pages of an old book. He does not give himself a moment to hesitate, just gently presses his mouth against the priests. 

He feels Ezra weakly respond, one of his hands comes up to rest against Floki’s own. He feels the moment it happens, Ezra freezes. 

Floki pulls back. 

After a moment Ezra takes in a slow deep breath. “Floki?”

He sees the understanding in Ezra’s eyes. “Beklager.” Sorry. Floki closes his eyes and leans back down to rest his forehead against Ezra’s. “Beklager, Athelstan.”

“Det... er greit.” Ezra responds in perfect Norse. It is okay. 

Floki lets out one single laugh that might also be a sob. 

“Jeg tilgir deg…” I forgive you. Ezra smiles just a bit. 

Floki can almost not stand to look at the forgiveness in his expression. “I killed you… I’m a fool and a coward. I don’t deserve this forgiveness. I don’t deserve your love.”

“No one... deserves what has... happened to you.” 

Floki lets hot tears run down his face as Ezra, or Athelstan’s eyes begin to lose focus. 

“Floki…” the whisper is almost too quiet to hear. 

“Athelstan?” Floki strokes Ezra’s gaunt cheek. “Athelstan?”

Ezra’s eyes slip closed. His breath shuddering. 

His eyes never open again. Floki sits with him all through the night. As the first light rays creep through the high windows Ezra breaths out, and not in again. 

Floki digs a shallow grave for him under one of the apple trees. He is beyond the point of tears as he lays Ezra’s body, wrapped in linen, in the ground. He knows christians aren't buried with things to take with them to the afterlife like the Norse people where. There might be little point to it anyways, his soul, or whatever it is that makes him, him, might come back to Midgard. Floki buries him with things anyways. A carving of a lion he made that Ezra had said was his favorite, a wooden cross, a book of old biblical legends, apples, and a small knife. 

After Ezra’s body is covered he sits next to the overturned dirt for a while. 

Silent. 

He touches a hand to the dark soil. 

“I will see you again.”


	11. The Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey how is everyone?  
> Hopefully safe and healthy, I'm back to work at the bridal store sewing away!   
> I will say I actually haven't been working on this story at all... sorry... I'm still planning on one chapter a month but right now I have work and several costume commissions and those take priority.  
> Enjoy the new chapter!

The Black Plague is what history remembers it as. So much of Europe is destroyed. Floki leaves behind the death, the sad streets lined with bodies and pits of burning bones. 

His travels take him all the way to China. It is an immensely forgen land to him. The languages are hard to decipher, the religions varied, the architecture old and awe inspiring.

He wanders it’s lands for years, he loses track of how long. But he knows it’s been a very very long time since Ezra. He sees no one that could be the priests reincarnation. 

Floki starts to lose hope that he will ever see him again. Perhaps he finally helped enough for him to never come back again.

This is both his dread and his hope, until he hears a small child crying by the docks in Beijing. The city is loud and chaotic, but the high wails of the child cut through the din of fishers and sailors. His gaze is pulled to a small boy, he is huddled in the alcove of a doorway, his hands clumsily wipe tears from his eyes as he looks frantically at the crowds of people passing by. 

His dark hair is styled in short curls and his clothing looks to be made of a fine blue material. 

When his tearful eyes meet the Northmen’s, Floki sighs. 

There he is. A child this time. 

The Northman takes in a deep breath, looks to the sky, uttering a small prayer to the goddess Gefion for luck. Then he approaches the crying child. 

The poor boy looks up at him in fear. Floki absolutely towers over him. For a moment he casts around for what to do, then he crouches and asks in English. “Are you alright?”

The boy just stares at him. 

Try again, this time in Norse. “Are you alright?”

The child scrunches up his eyebrows. And replies. “N-no… I cannot find my mother or father.”

From his accent Floki can tell the boy is Sweedish. 

“Well…” he sighs. “What do they look like?”

“Father has dark hair and a big beard, mother was wearing a green dress.” The child sniffles and then wipes his nose with his sleeve. 

Very helpful description, Floki resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Why don’t we look for them together?”

The child looks Floki over. “Mother says I’m not to speak with strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger.” Floki tries to look reassuring.

Such a critical look on such a young face should not be possible. “We have never met before. I don’t know your name.”

Floki looks away and shakes his head in frustration, then looks back. “My name is Floki and I have known you all your life.”

The boy wipes a few more tears off his face. “Are you my guardian angel?”

Floki blinks a few times, then giggles. “Yes, yes I am.”

“Well then…” He sniffs again and stands up a bit straighter. “I-I guess it would be okay to go with you.”

Floki holds his hand out and the child takes it. They pull away from the alcove.

The child barely comes up to Flokis waist and his wide blue eyes look up at Floki with fascination. “If you are my guardian angel then why do you talk so funny?”

Floki shakes his head. “Because I am Norwegian.”

“I didn’t know Angels could be from a certain place.” 

“They can.” Floki can already tell this child is going to be a lot to deal with. And he is right. The boy asks about everything, from Floki’s tattoos, to the boats at the docks, to the color of the sky. 

Floki answers as best he can. 

After a while the child complains his feet are tired. Floki lets him hop onto his shoulders and ride around. The boy squeals in delight at being so high up. 

By the time they find his parents the sun has begun to set. It’s the boy who spots them. He screams out “MOTHER! FATHER!”

A young couple dressed in fine clothes, both with dark hair, come running up. Floki lets the boy off his shoulders and the mother snatches him up, tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“Ingvar!” She sobs as she holds her boy close. The father lays one hand on her back and the other on his son's head. 

He looks to Floki. “Thank you.”

Floki nods. “I am glad he is back safe.”

“Mother! Father! This is Floki! He says he’s an angel!” The boy, Ingvar, extracts himself from his mother’s arms.

The father and mother both look from Ingvar and to Floki. 

He shrugs, they smile. 

“How can we ever thank you?” The father steps up to Floki.

“You don’t need to,” Floki waves both of his hands.

“Really anything you want, gold, fine goods, I would even give you one of my ships if you asked.”

Floki shakes his head. “No, I don’t need anything…” He takes a step back, the pauses. “Wait, actually, Ingvar,” he looks to the boy. “I have something for you.”

Ingvar steps up to him. Floki reaches inside one of his pouches and pulls out a carving of a boat. It’s not as finished as he would like, he had planned on making it just like the first one he had ever built for Ragnar. As it is, the wood is shaped into a simple viking long ship with a wide sail and the small figure of a man at the bow. 

He holds it out. 

Ingvar takes it and looks it over with fascination.

“Woah! Thank you!” He giggles and throws his arms around Floki’s wasit.

The Northman is taken aback for a second, he pats the boy on the head.

When Ingvar lets go Floki crouches down again to be at his level. “You keep that close, a finely made boat can get you through even the worst storms.”

The boy nods, then looks up, a bit sadly. “Will I ever see you again?”

Floki laughs and ruffles the boys curls. “You will.”

He never sees Ingvar again, but he certainly sees Athelstan again, another life, years later.


	12. The Fifth (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi...  
> I'm still here... Sorry for not posting a new chapter for ages... In all honesty life has been crazy, I was working 7 days a week, then I was in a car crash and all that on top of the craziness we are all going through. When I'm not at work all I've been doing is paying Assassin's Creed Valhalla.   
> I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe!   
> I don't know what my schedule for updates is going to be like but I WILL FINISH THIS STORY!  
> This chapter is finally going to get into the Versailles show, which I watched years ago so I only remember like half of it and I don't really like how a lot of what I'm writing for this part is going, but I have tried to rewrite it time and time again so it's just getting posted!   
> Enjoy and Happy Holidays!

Flok's feet take him back to his home in the North. Everything is utterly changed, and yet, exactly the same. The Fjords and the mountains, the foggy woods and wooden stave churches. He missed it. 

He sets up in a town called Christiania, but many people still call it by its original name, Oslo. It’s bay looks out into the ocean. The docks are busy year round with merchants, travelers and fishing vessels. It’s a good place for a boat builder, though as the months go by and the people learn of Floki’s skills, he starts to figure that Inventor might be a better title for him. People ask him for all kinds of things, from better door locks, to machines to lift huge cargo, to anything and everything imaginable.

Floki was not aware of how well known he was becoming, it comes as a great surprise to him when a knock comes on his door early one morning and he finds a man with a summons to the court of King Frederick III of Denmark and Norway. 

He accepts. It could be quite interesting, if it is not, he will leave. Simple, easy. A small part of him hopes, as it always does, that he will catch the sight of dark hair and blue eyes.

It’s a short trip to Denmark, the King seems well liked, Floki finds him rather boring, and the fashion of the nobility to be ridiculous. Wigs, lace and ruff collars, it’s too much, too opulent. The King commissions him to design and build things for him, mostly weapons, they are at war with Sweden. The King also allows Floki an allowance to just build anything he wants. 

Other than having to deal with annoying nobles and a busy castle. It is alright. The Lords and Ladies quickly learn that Floki is odd, they leave him alone after he is less than polite to most of them and their pestering. He has no patience for their odd games of power. Starting rumors, gossip and stabbing each other in the back, it just seems ridiculous, he would rather actually stab someone in the back, with an ax.

The only person he tolerates is the King’s Daughter. 

Her name is Ella. She has a fiery spirit, matching her fairy hair. She is tall and willowy, every inch of skin covered in bright freckles. She is well past the age of being married but has refused every man who has ever offered his himself, even going so far as to stab the hand of one suiter who “Got a bit too grabby.”

She likes to watch Floki build, carve and plan. She wants to learn. She wants to learn everything. She listens to his stories of far away lands with rapt attention, she helps him nail boards as he explains the old Gods to her, she pours over books in every language she can get her hands on, often asking his assistance with the languages he does know. He even teaches her to fight, guns have become the preferred weapon for most of the world, he likes the noise they make but there is nothing like a good blade. Ella prefers two daggers to his usual axes. At first she’s quite clumsy, tripping over her long limbs and falling to the ground more than once. She gets the hang of it eventually, but it will take many long years before she is a great fighter. He admires her dedication. Many of the castle's residents highly disapprove of Ella’s antics. She just shrugs them all off. 

Floki does ask once if her parents disapprove of her fighting, or any of her other odd habits. She just shrugs. “I think they have given up on me… I have other siblings both older and younger. Why keep worrying about the one screw up? At least I’m not having sordid affairs or other scandalous conspiracies.”

He cannot argue with that logic. 

He is working on improvements to a cannon when Ella comes running up with a paper in her hand.

“Floki! Floki!” 

He jumps at her shouting and hits his thumb with a hammer. He hisses in pain and drops the tool while holding his thumb. “Hrafnasueltir!”

“Oop! Are you alright?” She gently touches his shoulder.

“Yes!” He shakes his hand. “What are you yelling about?”

She holds up the paper, it’s very official looking, a seal and signature at the bottom. 

He blinks at it. “And this is?”

She grins. “It’s an invitation! To spend the autumn in the Court of the King of Francia!”

Floki makes a face. Francia, Rollo. Nine Hundred years is a bit long to hold onto a grudge, he holds on to it anyways. “What does this have to do with you or me?”

“Well the invitation is originally for my older brother, but he is too busy helping Father fight the Swedes, Emma is with child so she cannot travel. As the next in line, I get to go!”

“And?”

“And, I want you to come with me.” She smiles, pleadingly. “It will be exciting, and a chance for you to show off your work to more people.”

“More annoying rich people to look down their noses at me.” Floki scoffs and dismisses her to pick up his hammer.

“Floki,” Ella grabs his shoulder and turns him back to her. “Please? You are the only person I know who really understands… and I want to go on an adventure like the ones you tell me about.”

He sighs and looks away. “I’ll think about it…”

She laughs and gives him a tight hug. “Thank you my friend! It will be so exciting! There is still a long time before we will leave, you’ll have to learn more French. I can teach you.”

Days pass in a blur of forced French lessons, long nights whittling, and warm afternoons sparing. Before Floki is even ready for it they are leaving. 

They will travel in a caravan with guards watching over the princess at all times, her handmaids come along too. There are also servants, a few other nobles. It takes a month to travel the whole distance. 

Floki thinks if they didn’t have so many people, or have to stop and stay at castles and villas along the way, the whole thing could go much faster.

He cannot help but be a bit excited. The palace of Versailles is a ways away from Paris, but he finds he wants to see the city again. Would he even recognize it? Ella had shown him maps, it was no longer a city confined to a single island. It had become a huge spalling metropolis, full of light, and art, and architecture. 

The day they make it to Paris is hot and humid, bugs buzz through the air, and despite being so close to their destination, everyone shows little excitement. They elect not to pass directly through the city, as its streets are crowded. They pass a few miles to the west of it. Through the hazy air Floki squints at the city. He wants to spur his horse into action, ride nearer, see the new bridges that span the river, the spires of towers. He wants to find the spot where his ladders burned, the church where Ragnar came back to life.

Ella calls out to him from her carriage as it trundles by. “Don’t worry Floki, I’m sure we will visit the city before long!” 

He glances at her and then back to the city again. He turns his horses head away and toward the large stone bridge they will cross.

Versailles, is quite astounding. Beautiful, but extremely excessive. Floki marvels at the golden paint, statues and columns. He wonders at how long it took to build, and how they keep it so clean?

Servants stand outside the three sets of main doors, waiting to help the caravan unload. The nobles unload in a hurry, quick to get out of the midday heat. Ella is greeted with bows and curtsies. One of the nobles who accompanied them, Floki never bothered to learn his name, tries to take her arm and be the one to lead her into the palace. She shakes him off and instead she waits for Floki to dismount. With long strides he meets her. She offers her arm. He looks at it, takes it, giggles and leads her through the golden double doors.

Inside is cool and Floki is glad to be out of the heat and wet air. He hates humidity. Makes him feel wet, then he sweats and is even more wet. 

He feels a bit underdressed as they walk inside.

Ella chuckles lightly to herself. “You smell like horse.”

He gives her a sarcastic look but is interrupted by an announcement spoken in French.

“Presenting her Royal Highness Princess Ella of Denmark and Norway!”

Floki looks to the man who just shouted, a servant, then forward to the Lords and Ladies gathered. At the far end of the entry room standing in the middle, a bit apart from the rest of the crowd, is a man and a woman. 

The woman is beautiful, her hair dark waves that sit pinned on her head and in graceful curls across her shoulders. She wears an ornate dress of gold, complimenting her tan skin. The wideness and glimmering of her clothing catches Floki’s eyes for just a moment. Then he looks to the man. 

His step pauses for just a moment. 

The man is dressed just as ornately as the woman beside him, his clothing is white with gold trim and beading, even his shoes are covered in shining beads, but it’s the dark hair, hanging in a long immaculate style, and blue eyes that give Floki pause. 

Athelstan… a priest, a farmer, a merchant, now Louis XIV King of Francia. 

He looks absolutely ridiculous.

Floki grins and he tries to hold in a laugh. The King gives him a very confused once over before turning his attention to Ella.

At a reasonable distance away, Ella stops walking. He stops too. She drops her arm from his and gives a low curtsy. “Your majesties, King Louis the Great and Queen Maria Theresa of Spain, I cannot express what an honor it is to meet you both.” 

“Princess Ella, the honor is ours, we have heard much about you,” The queen smiles, but it does not reach her eyes, and gestures for Ella to stand from her curtsy. “We have heard you have quite the love of books, you must visit the royal library after you freshen up from your journey.”

“It would be an absolute dream to see the library of Versailles. I have heard tales of golden walls lined with tombs.” Ella gives the queen a polite smile, everything about her right now is polite. She pauses for a moment then holds a hand out, gesturing to Floki. “Let me introduce the inventor of the Danish-Norwegian Royal Court, and my dear friend, Hrafna-Flóki Vilgerðarson.”

Everyone's eyes turn to him, he realizes he is supposed to bow, he very awkwardly does so. He glances up from the low bow, the queen looks quite miffed, but the King seems quite amused, Floki holds his blue gaze for a moment. 

With a hand covered in gold rings the King gestures him to stop bowing. “An inventor, how fascinating.”

“And a wanderer, and ondskap maker, and drengr, and boat builder.” Out of nervousness Floki giggles. Ella gives him a look. He puts his own hand over his mouth to stop, his grin is still obvious. 

“Floki is very eccentric, you’ll have to forgive him. But the things he thinks up are quite astounding!” Ella pulls the King and Queen’s attention back to her. 

“Eccentric indeed.” King Louis raises an eyebrow. “I look forward to getting to know the both of you, for now, please let our servants escort you to your rooms.” 

Once out of ear shot from the gathered court Ella laughs. “Did you see their faces? Oh the impropriety of the Princess being escorted by the lowly inventor, not even a title to his name! What did you think?”

“The queen could barely even look at me without pulling a face,” Floki chuckles a bit. “The king looks like someone I knew a very long time ago. Perhaps he and I shall be friends.”

Ella thoughtfully taps her chin. “I do not know. I’ve heard he is quite the flirt and at the center of more scandals then one can even count. Not particularly your kind of person.”

Before their conversation can continue the servants stop in front of a door. 

“Your Highness, this shall be your room for the duration of your stay.” 

Ella pats Floki on the arm and says she will see him again at dinner.

One servant remains with Floki, he looks up nervously at the Northman. “Y-your room is this way.”

The amount of halls, rooms, stairs, doors is astonishing. The servant leads him quite a ways away from Ella’s room, to an area less decorated. The door is plane and white the servant opens it to a nice room, the walls are white, the floor covered in a large red and black rug, there is a vanity with a mirror, and a wardrobe on one side, up against the far wall and under a window is a bed, large enough for two people to fit comfortably. It is covered in a large red and black quilt. All the wood is dark oak. It’s nice, even nicer then the room he had in Denmark, partially because half of it is not dedicated to schematics and half finished projects. 

He steps into the room, glad to see that his pack of possessions is laying at the foot of the bed.

“Water will be brought for you to clean up. Dinner is in two hours, I will come and get you when it is time… Wear something nice.”

Something nice for Floki consists of a tan shirt, a thick dark green doublet that he absolutely hates, dark brown pants and black boots. He uses the water that is brought and a good knife to shave his head, it has started to grow out during the journey. His beard is longer than he would like but he does not have good tools to cut it, instead he braids some of it and leaves the rest free. The braids are secured with beads each carved with the snake of Loki. 

He looks himself over in the mirror. He huffs, looks away, looks back, pulls on the doublet, then laughs. He hadn't used his normal kohl while traveling, looking at himself now, stuffed in horrible hot clothing, he longs for the familiar lines he debates for a moment. Then digs into his pack to find it. Ella has said he was eccentric after all. 

Dinner is held in a large room with all of the court in attendance. It’s loud, and bright. The king and queen sit at a table on a platform above the others, Ella is seated with them, on the left of the queen. She grins when she sees Floki. He is seated elsewhere, surrounded by people he either doesn’t know or doesn’t like. He’s not even sitting for more than ten minutes and already the babble, clink of silverware, light laughter is giving him a headache.

None of the people sitting around him seem keen on speaking with him. In fact the two men on either side seem to turn away from him. That suits him fine. After all, his French skills are still lacking a bit.

He eats and in between bites he looks up at the king. He has never seen the man look so pompous before. He guesses that comes with being a king. Even Ragnar had gotten more uptight when he had been given power. Being in charge seems to make people think they are better than everyone else, like their existence means more.

Floki has lived long enough to know everyone is the same, choices create a person's life, but in the end they all die. They all rot. All but him. 

His staring doesn’t go unnoticed. King Louis looks at him eventually. He scrunches his eyebrows a bit, and goes back to talking to Ella. But only a few minutes later he’s looking back at Floki. Floki keeps their eyes locked as he takes a long drink of wine from his cup, it tastes terrible. He makes a face and slams the cup down. He pushes back from the table, the legs of his chair squeak across the marble floor. He stands. The people have stopped talking, their eyes all on him. 

Do they expect him to say something?

With pinched eye brows, he looks around at them all, then turns and leaves. 

Outside the sun has begun to set, it’s still humid. Floki takes his heavy doublet off and hangs it on a bench. He doesn’t care if someone steals it.

The hum of cicadas and crickets fill the twilight. The gardens behind the place seem to stretch forever an endless maze of hedges, ponds, and flowers. He wanders through it, while letting his hands brush across the leaves and soft petals of the plants he passes. 

He reaches the edge, where gravel turns to forest, tall trees sway in the wind. He looks out into the long shadows. 

“Why am I here?”

He isn’t asking anyone in particular. 

With steady strides he steps from the immaculate gardens and into the trees. It feels as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders. He tilts his head toward the arching branches above. “Why am I here?”

Wings break the silence, his eyes are pulled to a large black raven. It blinks and clacks his beak at Floki.

“Alfather,” He nods to the bird. “Come to see how poor immortal Floki is doing?”

The bird tilts its head.

“Did fate lead me to this place? I hate it… But he is here… Not like any other version before.” He holds his hand out to the bird, it looks at his fingers for a moment then nips at them. Floki laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Am I to help him again? How does one help a man who already has everything he desires?” He glances back at the lights of the palace through the trees.

“More than everything…” 

The bird caws. 

“Was I never supposed to help?” He glances at the bird. “Maybe you and the Christ god just enjoy the show. Get a good laugh about poor Floki. Floki the fool, Floki the loner, Floki the trickster!” 

The lights beyond the forest seem to dance with the swaying foliage. 

So grand, selfish, dramatic, petty. 

None of those words describe the Athelstan he knew. 

He wonders if there is any of the original man left in this new version.

The crow caws again, it’s wings flapping loudly as it takes flight. It soars toward the lights of the palace. 

There is a way to see if anything is there. If under the guise of a king hides a priest.

Floki laughs. He laughs so hard that he falls backwards, he lets himself fall and lays back into the dirt and leaves. A wild idea.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on updating this often! It's already about half way written!


End file.
